


Strings

by Howlesque



Category: Realm of the Elderlings - Robin Hobb
Genre: Fool's Assassin spoilers, Fool's Quest spoilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 15:57:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howlesque/pseuds/Howlesque
Summary: Follows alongside Hap Gladheart during the events of Fool's Assassin and Fool's Quest.(( 100k+ that just needs posting. Hoo boy. There might be some continuity errors - please let me know! ♥ ))





	1. I

There was no way he could make that climb.

Hap stared up at the ragged tree, frowning. It was dead. He knew that, and knew that the poor thing would not be able to hold his weight if he tried hoisting himself into its branches. He crossed his arms, eyes fixed on his goal -- the little shuttered window snugged into the wall of an inn.

He could just wait until the innkeep unlocked the doors for the morning. It would be easier, and wiser. He’d get an earful from Trustworthy about not getting back before she locked up for curfew, but Hap knew that the tiny woman would keep him detained in the common room for as long as she could manage, raising her voice and drawing attention to the tall man who had chosen to grace her inn. 

Hap Gladheart -- celebrated minstrel, his clear tenor bringing joy to others as he belted out his repertoire of silly songs, his baritone reducing even the most stoic of soldiers to tears if he turned his words the right way. It was still so odd to think of himself in such a way. A part of him seemed unable to let go of Mishap, of his sister pushing at him and hissing through her teeth that he was a waste of space, of the proud-eyed minstrel stopping and gazing down at him with a guarded expression...no. Don’t think about that. Don’t chew at those old bones. There was no need to remind himself of the bad times, no need to punish himself for anything that he hadn’t done. The memories were hazy at best, and he had no desire to sharpen them.

He paced, glancing up at his rented room from time to time, wondering if he shouldn’t just try the tree regardless of the danger. It was clear and cold in the early morning, and he was tired. He judged it would be about an hour before sunrise yet, and he couldn’t fairly expect Trustworthy to be up immediately, even if he did know her for an early riser. Hap sighed, shifting the woven strap of his lute’s case into a less uncomfortable position on his shoulder, and moved to lean against the tree.

It was cold, yes, but at least the weather was fair. Hap rubbed his mittened hands along his arms before hugging himself, trying to still his shivering. He felt a moment’s gratitude that Darat was tucked into a little valley, sheltering it from the ocean winds that he was accustomed to. There’d be no waking in the middle of the night to the shutters rattling away with every strong breeze -- or rather, that would’ve been the case if he hadn’t misjudged his time singing up at the keep. Darat was a small town, with a keep that couldn’t hold a candle to Buckkeep, and only the most minor of lordlings in the area upholding some semblance of nobility. Nonetheless, they kept it a lively enough place, not relying on the intrigue and power-plays of the larger towns and louder names. Hap liked it well enough.

A door whispered open to his side and he glanced around, hoping Trustworthy had noticed him somehow, but it was her son peering out around the doorframe. Hap sighed with relief, hitching up his lute case as he hurried closer.

"You get locked out?" The man slurred with sleep and rubbed the side of his face roughly, watching the minstrel blearily. "You’ve stayed here before. You know mam won’t tolerate people staying out past curfew."

Hap grinned and scooted past the man, giving him a pat on the shoulder in thanks as he did so. "Even if they’re me?"

The man just stared at him, blinking slowly, and shut the door with a soft thud. "‘Specially if they’re some famous minstrel. Don’t you think she’ll be telling everyone who listens of how the great Gladheart waited outside her very inn, knowing it as the best in town, waiting with baited breath to be let into the common room?"

"I only missed the curfew, that’s all. The Dog’s still open, you know. I could’ve gone there."

A scoff, and the man gestured to the stairs. "I’m sure you could’ve, Master Gladheart. Mam’ll be waking soon, and you’ll probably want to be in your room when she gets up. She’s half a mind to pull in the keep staff for favours just to make you breakfast."

"Ah." Hap shifted uncomfortably, eyes downcast. No, he certainly wasn’t going to be used to this any time soon. "Well, thank you. It’s damn cold out there. Goodnight, ah -"

"Weever."

He raised an eyebrow. Odd name for a valley-dweller. "Weever. Sorry for waking you."

"Sir."

Hap wasted no time heading up to his room, glancing back over his shoulder as he reached the landing. The innkeeper’s son was roughly scrubbing his hands over his face, his hair tousled. Clearly still half-asleep, and Hap felt a moment of guilt that he had risen so early just to let him in, but he was too chilled to dwell on it for long.

A wash of warmth rolled from the room as he opened the door, and he sighed with relief. A young fire was burning strongly in the little hearth, and curtains had been drawn over the shutters to hold in the heat. He was careful to latch the door tightly and prop his lute against a bedpost before flopping, fully clothed, onto the patchwork quilt of his bed. He wondered if the man had been nice enough to kindle the fire before letting Hap in, before giving in to sleep and warmth.

* * *

 

"Surely, Lord Gladheart, it would be no trouble to play for my daughter’s birthday. She’s turning twelve in a few days’ time, I’m sure you’ve heard. I’d be happy to pay."

Hap threw up his hands in protest. "Hold on there, I’m not a lord. You wouldn’t go about calling every wandering minstrel you met a lord, so --"

"Oh, please. Daratkeep may be small, but we do still have standards here. This is not the first time you’ve graced this little town with your songs. Perhaps we’ve been spoiled by your attentions, but, well, as I said...we do have standards. Other minstrels just don’t have that same, hm, what’s the word? Flare? Quality?" Virtue propped up his head with two fingers, watching Hap with avarice.

The minstrel couldn’t quite hide the curl of distaste that he felt cross his features, but Virtue seemed unaware. The man only had a decade or so on Hap, but he flaunted his meagre wealth and status like a child showing off a new toy, and seemed immune to any form of criticism. He wasn’t sure how such a pompous lordling had been raised with the influence of the good folk of Darat Town, and he bit his lip to prevent the words from leaving his mouth. He was not impressed by the man’s casual disdain of other minstrels as an attempt to gain face with Hap.

"Well? What say you?"

"Lord Virtue, I was not planning on staying in Darat long. Merely to resupply. I’m trying to make my way east as quickly as possible." Not technically an outright denial. He hoped Virtue would accept it.

"What? Why? Surely three days won’t make much of a difference. I did mention I would pay you finely for this, yes?" The lord, perched lightly on the edge of Hap’s bed, watched him like an owl.

"You did," Hap sighed, "and I’m terribly sorry, but, well…" How was he supposed to say he simply wanted to see his father for a few days? Virtue would surely turn that into a guilt trip over not attending his daughter’s birthday. He’d met her twice before when he had played at the keep - Satin, he thought her name was. She was a bright girl, chatty and curious about his travels, but all too used to getting her own way in all matters. He knew that it wasn’t her fault, that he shouldn’t blame the child for delaying him simply because her father couldn’t take no for an answer. Hap ran a hand through his hair, tangling it.

"Well. Your accommodations here seem suitable enough. I’ll settle your account with Mistress Trustworthy for the next four days. Satin and I will see you up at the keep bright and early, three days from now." Virtue was on his feet and through the door before Hap could formulate any way of getting out of performing for him.

"But," he mumbled, interrupted by the door shutting loudly, "I don’t want to."

He sighed again. He sounded so childish, so surly. Wasn’t this what he wanted? Playing for an audience at keeps across the Duchies, making a good name for himself? He’d certainly succeeded in that. Almost too well, he thought bitterly, and toed his boots off angrily, kicking them across the little room.

Knocking at the door. Hap scowled, thinking Virtue had forgotten to bully him into something else, and yanked a hand through his hair quickly to neaten it up. He failed. "What? Lord Virtue?"

The door opened enough to admit Weever's face; he raised a thick brow at the look on Hap's face. "Just me. Mam thought you might be interested in the pick of the roast tonight. She really went all out just to impress you, you know."

The minstrel flopped back onto the covers, sighing. "I know. I know. I'll be down soon enough, I just need a few moments to myself."

"Virtue convinced you to stick around for a bit longer, eh?"

Hap only groaned in response. Weever's laugh was low and warm, and he sidled into the room fully, shutting the door quietly behind him. "Don't take it personally. We rarely get anything more exciting than vagrant birds here. The famous Gladheart, well..."

"I've been here before."

"You have, but you always seemed to slink off before the lord could corner you. Not sure how you managed it. He's a sly one." Weever chuckled again.

Hap rolled his eyes at him, sitting up with a groan. The innkeeper's son was watching him, arms crossed, tiny lines of amusement around his dark eyes. He rolled his shoulders as he stood, watching Weever's eyes flicker over his torso before snapping back to his face. "Guess I'm just more of a weasel than he is," Hap said, smiling.

Weever flashed him one quick grin before inclining his head towards the door. "Come along, then. You really don't want to keep mam waiting. You've stayed here enough to know that by now." He held the door open for the minstrel, latching and locking it tightly behind him.

The smells of dinner were thick in the hall, and Hap felt his mouth watering against his will. It had been a long day of performing, of being hunted down by the relentless lord; dodging him was not as easy as he thought it would've been, and he'd been cornered in his room by Virtue before long. Some food, drink, and good chatter with the commonfolk of the town would be a welcome break before bed, and he descended to the common room, Weever following close behind.

The room was packed tightly with the townsfolk, warm and loud with their exuberance and celebration of a hard day's work completed. Men sat at circular tables, tossing dice and cards and laughing uproariously at their insults to one another. Three women, sisters and local hunters from what Hap knew, had claimed a corner to themselves, talking animatedly about something or other. A serving boy darted between tables and around drinking patrons, hands filled with sticky tankards and empty dishes. It was warm, almost uncomfortably, but the relaxed atmosphere made it seem more pleasant than not.

A small table, conspicuously placed near the bar, clearly awaited him. It was piled high with food; everything from the promised roast (smelling deliciously of garlic, which set his mouth to watering again), to locally-grown vegetables of all varieties piled high and dripping with butter and gravy. A frosty pewter mug of ale - the inn's priciest, if he had come to know Trustworthy as well as he thought he had - sat brimming with foam.

Weever prodded him gently between his shoulders. "Just eat as much as you can and head back up. They'll want to talk to you, of course. You don't have to sing, no matter how hard mam tries to get you to warm your pipes. So, don't worry about it."

Hap suppressed a sigh, fixing a grin on his face as he entered the room to raised tankards and cheers of welcome. The accolade and genuine eagerness in people's faces when they saw him wasn't unpleasant, he'd tell anyone that for free, but...sometimes he just wanted time, quiet time for himself and his thoughts. He supposed growing up in such a sedate area, with quiet old Tom for a foster parent, had spoiled him in that regard. It could get stormy, yes, and their neighbour had been a decidedly rotten fellow, but it had been a wonderful life. Some part of him still ached for that from time to time - the desire to return to his father's hearth, listening to the man's gentle snores as he slept upon a heap of his papers strewn with ink tests, cut him frequently and without warning.

He took his chair, nodding greetings at the people who crowded close to him. Weever prowled about the common room, his pristine apron making him stand out amongst the multitudes of worn and stained clothing, his dark eyes watching carefully for any signs of trouble. Hap knew he'd find some way to intervene on the minstrel's behalf and let him flee back to his rooms if the evening began to drag on too long for him; he'd done it before, much to his mother's annoyance, but Hap was too grateful for his actions to ask him to stop.

To be fair, it was easy enough for him to manipulate the conversations around him as he saw fit. It was an old trick of Tom's - clever words and interest to redirect a person into talking about themself, and usually they were more than happy to leave you be. He had gotten quite good at it since his name became known, though he never seemed to manage it with the sharp finesse that his father could utilize. No matter. People usually fell over themselves to talk to the great Gladheart.

The food was delicious, and the ale was chilled to perfection. The warmth of the room and the respectful press of people lulled him quickly to exhaustion, and he managed to break away from the hubbub of the room without Weever's assistance for once, waving his goodnights and promising to catch up with others on the morrow as he finally ascended the stairs once more. It was quiet on the landing, at least compared to the common room, the noise of the townsfolk nothing more than a dream-like susurrus from the floor below. He leaned into his door gratefully, pushing at the latch.

It didn't open. Oh. He patted at his pockets for his key - oh, of course. He'd looped it over the little hook hanging next to the door when Virtue had barged in after him. Hap scrubbed a hand over his face, his irritation at himself flaring.

"Sorry. Here."

Hap glanced back to the stairs; Weever leapt up them two at a time, holding up the ring of keys that normally resided on his belt. The man's shoulder pressed against his as he neatly unlocked the door, pushing it open and scooting inside the room before Hap could react. He followed, glancing at the wall next to the door, and frowned at the key dangling innocently there.

"I should be apologising. You'd think I'd be used to carrying keys around with me now, but apparently not." Hap said, furrowing his brow. Weever had already built up the fire, poking at the coals with a bit of kindling before tossing it in.

A moment's pause. "It's not a bother."

Hap watched the man move about the room, tidying with practiced efficiency. There wasn't much that needed doing; the minstrel was not usually a messy person, particularly when it came to spaces that weren't his. Nonetheless, Weever took the time to straighten the drapes in front of the shutters and fluffed the pillows before turning sharply on his heels and striding for the door. Hap cleared his throat as he was shutting the door behind him.

"Weever. Thank you. You've always taken time out of your day to make sure I'm comfortable here. I'm sorry it took me this long to find out your name." He gestured vaguely around the room, grinning. "I really do appreciate all of this. So, thank you."

The man's face, shrouded somewhat in the darkness of the landing, was unreadable, but Hap imagined he saw a glimpse of a small cat's smile. "It's not a bother, Gladheart. Goodnight." He shut the door softly.

Hap let out a pent-up breath he hadn't realised he was holding in, sinking slowly onto his bed. He looked at the fire burning merrily in the hearth, loving the feel of its heat sinking into him - different from the close, almost damp heat of the common room and its press of people. A comforting, lighter heat. He thought as he watched it eat away at the stick of kindling Weever had used to stoke it. Hap liked him; he was a good man, honest and constantly aware of the needs of those who frequented his mother's inn, and had always taken special care whenever Hap was in town. He wasn't pushy, nosing his way into the minstrel's life and time without invitation, but always seemed to show up exactly when he'd be needed most, using his imposing presence to herd admirers away from Hap when their attention was getting too much for him. 

He'd offer him a drink tomorrow, as some form of thanks for his help, or perhaps a song or tale in the parlour. He wondered if he'd prefer winding epics or silly ditties, mulling over which to choose from as he dozed off, fully clothed.


	2. II

Hap regretted not burrowing under his covers before nodding off. The night had turned bitterly cold, thanks to the clear sky, and his fire had burnt down to cinders while he slept. The heat must've taken some time to wick from the room, but it was certainly gone. He shivered and rolled off the bed, rubbing his hands over his arms briskly and moving quickly to the hod of logs, throwing one into the hearth with trembling hands. He hoped the cinders buried in the ash would be enough to ignite the log, but after a moment's agonised consideration, he stooped down and dragged the log from the fire.

It would be so much wiser to build the fire up again from scratch. He seized handfuls of kindling and bark-strips, building a quick and messy chamber for the young fire, and balanced the slightly scorched log on top of it. The dry bark caught immediately. Hap watched it quietly for a few moments, ignoring his chattering teeth, before double-checking the shutters and crawling into his chilled bed. The fire should take just fine, and the room was small and snug enough to heat quickly enough. He curled into a small ball, willing his blankets to warm faster as he shivered.

It must've been late. Early, even. He couldn't manage to doze off again, even when the heat from the new fire spread slowly through the blankets to him. He got up and tried sorting out the few possessions in his room, but Weever's quick ministrations earlier had kept the room spotless. He scooped up his lute, checking the strings and tuning it as quietly as he could manage. Everything was in order with it, as usual, and it wasn't long before he replaced it in its case.

Pacing again. He twitched the curtains aside, opening the shutters a crack to peer out into the bleak grey of a clear winter's morning. Nothing moved outside. A light fog drifted between the buildings, one he knew would be burned off before long. He sighed.

Hap was tired, and yet he couldn't sleep. He wanted to get up, to do something, to get out and stretch his legs, but he was too wary of Trustworthy locking the door behind him. Well, he supposed, it wouldn't be too bad so long as he dressed warmly enough. The innkeeper was an early enough riser, so one way or another, he wouldn't need to stay out for too long.

A knock on his door, so soft he nearly missed it. Hap paused in the act of tying up his shirt, surprised that anyone would be up at that hour. "Hello?"

"It's me. Are you alright?" Weever's voice barely made it through the door.

Hap rushed forward, unlocking the door and letting him in. His hair was a mess, sticking out every which way in spikes, and his eyes were red and sunken. He shivered, clearly displeased at being awoken so early and in such cold, and stared at Hap irritably.

"I'm - I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone could hear my lute. I didn't mean to wake you." Hap stammered.

Weever gave him a flat look. "I sleep in the room under yours. Your pacing woke me up, not the lute. Can't sleep?"

The minstrel cringed, tucking his hands under his arms. He hadn't thought he'd been loud enough to wake anyone with his pacing. "Mm. The cold woke me up. Can't seem to manage to get back to sleep now."

"What do you expect, with all that pacing you were doing? To fall asleep standing up?"

He stared down at Weever's knees. "I am sorry. You must be exhausted. I'll settle down now, I'll sit still at least."

Weever gave him a long stare, still shivering somewhat. Hap glanced up at his face, but it was closed off behind a mask of cold and annoyance. It was some moments before man sighed deeply, hugged himself more tightly and turned back to the door. "I'll make some tea," he said as he left.

"Wait -" Hap began, but he had whipped out onto the landing before he could stop him.

It wasn't long before Weever had returned with a large, plain pot and two chipped mugs on a tray. He had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, a colourful woven thing that Hap was surprised to see the usually dour man wearing. Weever lightly balanced the tray on the mantle, carefully poured out two mugs of steaming tea, and pushed one into Hap's hands before sitting down on his bed with a sigh. "Are you going to stand there staring?"

"Oh." He followed Weever's suit hastily, perching hesitantly on the edge of his bed. He wrapped his long fingers tightly around his cup, holding it close to his chest and staring into it. "Thanks for this. You didn't have to."

"I damn well did if I want to get another lick of sleep before getting up," he growled.

"No, really. You always take the time to make sure I'm doing alright when I'm here, you always make sure that the townsfolk aren't bothering me too much after I've been performing, and you never ask for anything in return. Don't think I haven't noticed," Hap said, raising the mug to his nose and inhaling some of the steam. Chamomile, delicately steeped. He took a small sip, wincing as he scalded his tongue.

"It's not a bother."

"I wanted to ask if you'd share a drink or a song with me before I left. I want to show my appreciation. It can't be fun herding people about when I'm too tired to do it myself."

The man fell silent, staring down into the fire. Hap watched him, head tilted. Weever's eyes flickered up to meet his more than once. "This," he said quietly, raising his mug slightly, "this is good enough for me."

"Tea?"

Weever rolled his eyes, leveling a stare at Hap. The minstrel bit back a smile. "Just...this. A bit of quiet with a friend. That's good enough for me. So. You're welcome, Gladheart."

The merest hint of warmth at the word 'friend'. Hap cleared his throat, taking a gulp of tea to cover it and nearly scalding himself again. What was he, some naive pup still eager to make a new friend here and there?

Yes, a coolly rational part of him said, of course you are. This is you, after all. Meeting all these people, forming these connections...that's why you keep on going. That's why you travel, and why you sing. So, why are you so surprised? "Thanks."

"You said that. Quite a few times, actually."

"Yes. Well." Hap's words, normally so easy to call upon, seemed to dwindle to a mere trickle within him. "I meant it. I appreciate it."

"I know. You said that too."

"And you never expect anything in return for it. Doesn't chaperoning minstrels get frustrating? We're not always the easiest lot to deal with."

Weever scoffed, a tiny smile on his face. "I don't chaperone minstrels. Not most of them, anyway. Let me guess - Virtue tried to reel you in with that talk of you being better than the others that pass through here?"

"He did."

"He wasn't really off the mark. No, hear me out," he said hastily at Hap's annoyed sigh, "you're not better than them. You're different from them, yes. Better means there's some sort of...standing? Or competition. But everyone knows that minstrels are individuals within a group, not a flock all following a bellwether. But you can't deny that wandering minstrels need a certain something in order to do what they do."

Hap thought for a moment. "Perhaps. I never really thought about it before now."

"Why did you decide to become a minstrel, anyway?"

"Oh? Are you asking me to recount an epic tale? The wondrous story of the great Gladheart's origins?" Hap smiled over the rim of his mug. Weever just stared at him, expression flat, and he sighed. "Oh, very well. It's not particularly exciting. I wasn't happy with my apprenticeship in Buckkeep Town, I frequented a tavern with a minstrel friend of mine, and was inspired. That's all, really."

"Minstrel friend?"

"Starling Birdsong." Hap quietly enjoyed the sight of Weever's eyes widening. "She's...unique to me. I've known her for most of my life."

Weever leaned closer, gripping his mug as if it might fly away from him. "How'd you meet her? Surely that's a story on its own."

Hands sticky, fat blue flies buzzing around his head, digging through a pile of refuse at the head of an alleyway. The feral satisfaction of finding a mouldy crust of bread that the rats hadn't yet claimed. The sudden scent of spices, of perfume, and a woman stood staring down at him curiously, her nose wrinkled, before she gestured at him to follow her. He didn't, not at first, not when he seemed to have found a little pocket of mouldering food within the garbage. It was not something he could just get up and walk away from, and he turned back to it, ignoring the woman. Surely she wouldn't come any closer. He didn't know her; why would such a pretty, tidy-looking woman be interested in someone like him? It made no sense.

"Boy, I said come," she barked at him, her voice powerful and carrying. Mishap dropped the rotten bit of fruit he'd been about to stuff into his mouth, looking up at her in surprise and distrust.

"Do you have food?"

A flash of annoyance crossed her face, and Mishap took a careful step back, snatching up the fruit and clutching it to his chest. The horse she was leading stamped its hooves impatiently, snuffling at the heap of garbage, its ears held back against its head. The woman motioned to Mishap again. "I'll buy you some food. A good meal. How does that sound? I'm giving you a chance to get off the street. A chance to live a life. Are you coming, or are you going to continue rooting about in filth like a rat? You're a boy, not a beast. So. Come along, now."

A meal. An entire meal, just for him? That didn't sound right. He remembered meals, the scents of meat and vegetables and warm milk and the sound of his mother scolding bitterly for picking at the food before it was done...but that had seemed so long before. Surely following her for a little while couldn't hurt. He could always run away again, if he felt like it.

"Hap?"

Just like that, he seemed to slam back into his own body, leaving the handful of memories behind him. The room was warm and his hands were slack around his mug, but Weever held them carefully to prevent the tea from spilling. They were warm, strong. He looked anxiously at the minstrel, eyes boring into his own. "I'm sorry."

Hap didn't respond, not vocally, but nodded. Weever's hand lifted from his own two and suddenly he noticed how they trembled. It wasn't fear, he told himself honestly. He wasn't afraid of those memories. It was the comparison to his new life, the knowledge that he had lived every day of his life as if he were nothing more than an animal, like Starling had said. The contrast of that harsh time to his comfortable, muzzy life with Tom at their little cottage seemed surreal to him, almost unreal with its duality at times. Some times had been difficult of course, and Tom hadn't always been the most patient or attending of fathers, but for the longest time it seemed as if that quiet man were the centre of Hap's world. Everything seemed to spin and revolve around him, and Hap had been terrified of any change, petrified of losing him, the only family he'd ever known that had accepted him.

"It's fine," he finally said, displeased with the roughness of his voice. "But not tonight, please. Maybe next time. Not tonight."

"I understand." The sudden softness of Weever's voice surprised Hap, and he took a moment to look at the man. "There'll be a next time, eh?"

Hap blinked. "Did you yourself not state that we're friends? Of course there'll be a next time."

The man watched him silently for a few moments, his expression carefully still. He blinked, clearing his throat, and drained off the remainder of his tea before standing up. "That would be good. I should get back. Let me refill your cup before I go."

He did, before sweeping the tray from the mantle and exiting the room with a sense of unavoidable finality. Hap stared at the door latch for some time, the tea in his hands forgotten and cold.

* * *

 

The next few days passed without much fanfare. Hap rose in the mornings, entered the common room to the grins and welcoming calls of those few who seemed to be permanent fixtures to the inn. He ate, listening more than speaking to the men and women he'd come to know passably well, and gathered up his lute before making the rounds. The local taverns and inns - and the singular bawdy-house - had taken it up amongst themselves to auction for his time and voice every evening, regardless of where he personally felt like performing, and the highest bidders would drag him to his work, shoving fat purses into his hands that he wished he could give to anyone else. There he would sing until the early hours of the morning, or until his voice finally cracked and ran dry - he was too careful, it never did - before staggering back to the Three Kingfishers, his pockets heavy with coins. Weever would always be waiting, a small amused smile on his face, before hurrying him through the common room and all but tossing him up the stairs to his room. There he would eat, wash up, and promptly pass out.

There was some comfort in the routine, Hap admitted to himself. It was always good to know that there'd be plenty of food at his beck and call, that people were eager to hear him and speak to him, that he would get the best rooms of whichever inn he fancied. But it was lonely, somehow. The people who milled below, waiting for a glimpse of the famous minstrel interred above, weren't waiting for him; no, they awaited the famous Gladheart, the minstrel who had made such a strong name for himself in little more than a decade. So few of them ever had eyes for Hap as he knew himself - the tall, rather ungainly fellow, mess of uncontrollable curls atop his head, mismatched eyes, Tom's boy. Well, there was little he could do about that.

He sighed, his eyes roving about his room listlessly. He'd be singing for Satin up at the keep tomorrow, and he wanted to be well rested for that encounter. He was certain it would go fine - Lord Virtue had all but ensnared him for nearly an hour down below, outlining the various plans he had made for the day, and requesting more songs that Hap thought possible to sing in just a few hours. He'd had a hot bath pulled up, scrubbing the last bit of dirt from his hair with his fingernails, and had left the little wash-house shocked at the colour of the bathwater. Some things died hard, he supposed, and felt a small sinking of shame that he had been in such a state during performances.

Cloud cover had finally engulfed the little valley, and the fire had warmed the room to an uncomfortable level. Evening had found Hap sitting cross-legged on his bed, shirtless, leaning back against the rough wall; the grain of it pressed into his back, grounding him. He had found himself thinking of his father more and more as the days had passed, and he truly wanted nothing more than to see him for a few days. Perhaps a week. He knew he was busy managing Withywoods - though, truth be told, he suspected that the Lady did the lion's share of the work - but Tom would surely set aside some time to spend with his son.

Foster son, Hap reminded himself quietly. There wasn't bitterness in his thoughts at the distinction, merely a hollow resignation. He knew that Tom didn't see him entirely differently from Nettle, but there were times that he wondered. Tom - FitzChivalry, he thought with a rueful grin - he was always so distant, so difficult to reach. There had been times in his youth where it seemed that the wolf was the only creature that could get through to him, no matter what Hap had tried, no matter what he had tried to say to pull his foster father from whatever funk he had gotten himself mired into. It had frightened him, sometimes. They were both aware of that, and yet Tom had seemed unable to do anything about it except dose himself heavily with potent herbs, preferring to sink into oblivion than face whatever it was that tormented him.

Something had changed within him after his return from the OutIslands. Hap knew that much, and had seen how his father seemed so much more alive - more pained, yes, but there was a keenness to him that he hadn't seen before. A sharpness, like an old knife given a new edge. Hap hadn't asked, and Fitz had been reluctant to share details. It was no matter, really. He was just content to see his father changed in such a way.

He flexed his back, feeling the grain prickle against his skin. He knew that mulling over such things at his age was nothing more than moping fancy, recurring pointless endeavours that he seemed unable to quit. He knew his father loved him and cared for his wellbeing - he recalled that moment on the winding road leading up to Buckkeep, how he had reached out to Tom to make amends to their earlier arguments, how they had said that they loved each other. There'd been sincere feeling from him, almost a push against Hap that he could detect; it was one of the few times that Tom had seemed, well...alive.

Quiet knocking snapped him from his musing, and he was suddenly self-conscious of his lack of a shirt. "Who is it?" he called out, scrabbling from the bed and scooping up the discarded tunic from the floor.

"Me. I've got food for you."

Weever. Of course. Hap abandoned the shirt, hurrying to unlatch the door and let the innkeeper's son into the stuffy room. "You didn't come down tonight, so I got some -"

He stopped dead, halfway into the room, eyes darting between Hap's bare chest and the shirt on the floor. The tray creaked between his large hands.

"Well, come on then, you're letting the warmth out. Not that that'd be entirely bad, mind. It's been uncomfortably warm tonight." Hap said, shooing him away from the door and closing it behind him. He was careful to turn the key; more than one patron had thought to seek time alone with him by simply barging into his room while he ate.

The tray clacked onto the little table that Weever had brought up the day before. His shirt flew into his face as Hap turned, and he caught it up, spluttering.

"No shirt, no shoes, no dinner. I'm not sure how you spend your evenings on the coast, but we tend to show a little more decorum here." Weever grumbled.

"I'm allowed to take off my clothes as I see fit within my own rooms, you know." Hap scowled as he pulled the tunic on, untangling his hair from its buttons.

A pause. "Of course you are. Preferably not when you're expecting me to bring you food, though."

"I wasn't expecting you to!"

"You were."

Hap laughed, moving to take his place at the little table. "You know, maybe I was. I've gotten used to you babysitting me."

Weever took his seat, uncovering the dishes quickly. He served food up for the two of them, his face quiet and thoughtful as he did so. "You don't have an assistant or apprentice that travels with you, then."

"No." Hap shoved a forkful of food into his mouth, earning a flat-eyed glower from Weever. "No assistant, and I wouldn't feel comfortable taking an apprentice. I doubt I'm up to scratch to teach one."

His friend barked out an incredulous laugh. "The great Gladheart, not good enough to take up an apprentice? You're joking, right?"

"No, I'm not."

Weever's expression grew more conservative. "How come? You could take your pick of any apprentice you wished. El's balls, half of the established minstrels would leap at the chance to call themselves your apprentice, I'm sure."

The minstrel shrugged a shoulder, piling more food onto his fork. "I don't think I'm good enough. I'm certainly not experienced enough. If Starling ever found out I tried to take an apprentice at my age, she'd box my ears."

"Surely it's not up to her?"

Hap smiled sourly. "You've never met her. She's the kind of person that noses into your life, whether you want her to or not. You should've seen her with my father."

Weever took a bite of potato, watching him with clear interest, waiting. Hap chewed his lip for a moment before setting his plate aside and leaning forward, elbows on the table's edge.

"You wouldn't know him. His name's Tom. He's, well, he's not technically my father. I mean, he is my father, but - foster father. He took me in when I was a kid. Starling just scooped me up off the streets and took me to his little cottage on the coast and left me with him."

His friend's brows raised slowly. "That must've been quite the shock. For both of you."

"It was. It was, I was..." He fell silent, eyes downcast. He almost never spoke of his life before Tom, not even to his father. They had both reached a silent agreement that it as simply a time before Hap's childhood could really begin, and left it at that. He cleared his throat. "My mother died and my sister pushed me out. I don't remember much of that. I do remember being on the streets, though. I'm not sure how long it was before Starling found me rooting around in a pile of garbage, looking for food. It could've been a day, or a year. She gave me the strangest look, I remember that clearly. I know her and Tom have known each other for a long time. He...wasn't in a good space when she brought me to him. I assume that's exactly why she did it. He, well, sort of ignored me for a little while at first. Not in the way you're thinking of, though. Like he was with an animal, trying to get a read on it, trying to let it get a read on him. It was a few months before we were comfortable around each other, I think.

"He had a w -- a dog. A big, mean-looking fellow, but he was a sweet old thing if he knew you. Nighteyes. He'd always be with either of us. Usually me, until I settled in. We used to hunt rabbits together, and Tom taught me my letters, and how to maintain the smallholding. He used to make and trade inks, and did some copying or map-tracing from time to time."

"A scribe?"

"No, not really. He mentioned something about being a scribe's apprentice once, but I'm not sure if he was serious about it or not. I think...I think he just took comfort in words, in writing down things. Like some people take comfort in ale or lovers, I suppose."

Weever glanced down at his food, poking at the remains of it with his fork. "What happened to him?"

"Oh. He's not dead, if that's what you're thinking."

"You speak as if he were."

Startled, Hap stared at his friend. Had he been? He quickly skimmed over what he had shared, and frowned. How to explain that that childhood facet of Tom seemed lost to him, now? That something had changed him over on the OutIslands, that he came back lesser - or far more - than himself when he had left? Even Hap wasn't sure of the entire story.

FitzChivalry Farseer. Over a decade, and he still seemed to be in shock over that particular titbit. His father, his old man, was some lost bastard prince that the crown had tossed aside before his time. He knew he wasn't at liberty to share that with Weever - he wasn't sure what it would prove, even if he did. Probably just that he was mad, or angling for attention. People still uttered his name as a curse in some parts of the Duchies, Hap knew, and Darat seemed to be one of those towns that felt determined to hang on to its prejudice against the Witted. No. He put those thoughts aside before his mouth decided to wander.

"He went through some things, Weever. He lost his own foster father, and was snubbed by his daughter who never knew him until she was nearly a woman. His real daughter. He worked for some time in Buckkeep, then travelled, and he was different when he got back. It wasn't a bad change, but..."

"Sudden changes like that can be unsettling, even if they're good ones. I understand."

Hap nodded slowly, picking up his food again. He watched it carefully as he thought. "So. You heard my story. What's yours, then?"

The innkeeper's son narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, that cat's smile of his showing for a moment. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Yes. That's why I asked."

That seemed to surprise him, and Hap sighed loudly. "What, so the great Gladheart can't show an interest in the people around him? Do you know how lonely it gets, when everyone wants to be with you, but nobody really cares about who you are? You're my friend, so, tell me about your life."

Weever looked at Hap warily for a long minute, before settling his empty plate aside. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his long legs and steepling his fingers. The warm light of the fire cast his dark features into stark shadow. Hap propped up his head with a splayed hand, meeting Weever's eyes. They watched each other before he began to speak.

"Well. You already know that my mam's the innkeeper here, and that I work here. It's probably not hard to guess that I've worked here for as long as I can remember. My sister as well. You've met her, and her son. Acorn's one of the serving boys. I don't know who my da was. Mam says he died before I was born, but she doesn't like talking about him, so...well, I just don't know. I used to ask around about him when I was a boy. The healer's son knew a little bit about him, that he was a weaver, but that was it. That's all I know about him."

"He was a fish?"

Weever threw a serviette at Hap; he grinned, catching it and tucking it into the front of his shirt. "No, you idiot. Weaver, with an 'a'. Not like my name. Well. I decided that since that was all I knew about him, I'd take up an apprenticeship with one of the weavers in the keep. I'm not sure why. Maybe I thought it would make me closer to him somehow, or open my mam up about him, but all it really did was give me a whole pile of extra work I needed doing. I did enjoy it, though. I still do."

"Can I see your work sometime?" Hap leaned forward, eyes bright.

Weever hesitated. "You can, if you want. Well. Actually..." At that, he twitched up a loose sleeve of his shirt. His wrist had been swaddled in a bright, soft-looking scarf, which he unwound and handed to Hap. "That's my work. It's old now, but I'm fond of the colours still."

It was softer than it looked, presumably from being worn. Hap ran it through his fingers, marvelling at the play of the colours. Blues and purples and greens, reminding him so strongly of the Chyurda he had seen once before during his travels, with delicate tassels hanging from the tapered ends. There was no repetitiveness to it; patterns would crop up for the width of a hand or two, before giving way to something new and different. The warp and woof of the fabric was so precise, so tightly-woven, that he couldn't stop himself from looping it over his brow, pulling the scarf tight over his unruly hair. "How do I look?" Hap said, smiling rakishly.

His friend flushed slightly, looking down at his hands. He didn't smile. "It...the colours suit you. Or, you suit colours." He cleared his throat. "You should keep it."

Hap frowned. "What? But this is yours."

"Which means it's mine to give away as I like. It suits you better, anyway."

The minstrel took up one of the free ends, rubbing the tassels between his fingers as he thought. A gift. From a friend. Some part of his stomach seemed to leap up into his chest without warning, and he felt himself grinning like a fool. "Well, then!" He gave the scarf one last adjustment before tying it off in a loose knot at the base of his skull. Hap felt the ropes of his hair that had broken free from his tail - which was most of them - settle themselves around it. "I love it. I'm not used to getting gifts. Thank you, Weever."

His friend grinned, openly and warmly. "You're welcome, Hap. I'm glad you like it."

The rest of their evening passed by in companionable chatter as they finished the rest of their meal. Hap promised Weever private showings of any song or tale he wished in return for the scarf; Weever put his foot down, however, insisting that a gift was a gift and needed no payment.

They spoke long into the early hours of idle, silly things - of games they played as children, and comparing the stories they'd grown up with, and how their parents had scolded them whenever they got into trouble. Before long they had left the little table and sat upon the thick rug in front of the fire, feeding it bits of wood and bark from time to time. Weever had slipped from the room for a large, chilled jug of ale and some tankards, giving him an odd, wandering look when he returned through the door.

The ale wasn't enough for them to get pleasantly drunk off of, but sitting in a warm room with a friend was enough to make Hap's head buzz. The bright scarf was a novel weight on his head, something he was all too aware of, but he couldn't bring himself to remove it and fold it away for the night. Surely he'd get used to it soon enough. He didn't particularly want to remove it, anyway. He didn't miss how Weever's eyes travelled up from his face to the bit of fabric more than once, and Hap felt little stabs of guilt, certain he had taken something precious to him.

"Hey." He jostled Weever's arm after his most recent glance at the scarf. "If it means a lot to you, you should take it."

"No." Weever said without hesitation. "No, I want you to keep it. It does mean a lot to me. That's  _ why _ I want you to take it."

"You'd tell me if I looked terrible with it though, right? Because there's no way I could subject the poor thing to my head, then." He had meant it as a joke, but Weever's face darkened.

"You don't look terrible. You look...handsome. You're made to wear bright things. Bright, random things, like...well." He hesitated, tossing back a large gulp of his ale. "Like your eyes. Bright and mismatched and lovely."

Hap stared at him, feeling his face warm. Words stood like bricks in his mind, and he somehow managed to stumble over every one of them. "Oh, that's - that - you - that's very -"

"I thought minstrels loved compliments. You should see your face." Weever coughed, turning aside. He plucked a bit of bark from the hod, beginning to methodically shred it and toss the pieces into the fire.

"That's - that's very nice of you to say," Hap finally managed to get his tongue in order.

"Yes. Well."

Silence fell between them. Hap rapidly sorted through thoughts in his mind, trying to find something to say. A joke, perhaps? No. It didn't seem like he had said it whimsically. Something serious? He didn't want to bring the mood down. A return compliment, perhaps? He wasn't sure if it would be appropriate - he could point out the darkness of Weever's eyes, how they seemed to absorb the light of the fire and reflect it again as the deep golden brown of clear ale - no, no, that wouldn't do. His hair, how thick and soft it looked, how it waved gently without forming curls, like the ocean finally finding peace after being whipped to a froth by a winter storm...no. Far too poetic. His hands - they were large and strong, with wide palms and long fingers that could dance so cleverly while flicking through keys or setting a table. Hap sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Sorry if I offended you."

"What? Of course you didn't!" Hap nearly knocked over his tankard in his haste to lay his hand on Weever's wrist. "I'm just - I get a bit flustered by compliments. It's just so nice, I never know how to respond."

Weever scoffed. "You get complimented the instant you walk down into the common room. You could be a mess and people would still fawn over you."

"Oh, please. You know full well they're doing it for my attention, not because they meant it."

"Perhaps." He looked down at Hap's hand. "And how do you know I'm not doing the same, then?"

Hap raised a brow, quirking his head towards his friend, forcing his expression to be so doubtful it would come off as grossly comical. Weever threw his head back and laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. The minstrel grinned and he knew he must look doubly foolish, but the lightness in his chest at the sight of his mirth was too much to keep locked up. "It's good seeing you laugh. You should do it more often."

"Stick around and keep being a naive fool then, I'm sure it'll happen plenty more. And anyway, I'm not a boy any more. You can't expect me to lay about, laughing at every little thing."

Hap shrugged a shoulder, taking up his tankard while he thought. That was something he hadn't come to understand as he aged. Men and women never seemed to laugh as much, or as openly, as younger folk. Humour was not the realm of youth, and yet there seemed a curious stage in the axis of one's life where to show amusement was considered almost to be crude. Young folk laughed because they were innocent; old folk laughed because they knew better. Weever was a man, yes, but not an old one - only a year or two younger than Hap, and yet he had the air of someone much more elderly. He was a hard worker and had little time for himself, and didn't seem to socialise much outside of the patrons of the little bar in the inn.

He could scarcely be blamed for that. Darat was just a small town, one of those places that people tended to pass through and forget about, or spend their entire lives residing there without ever seeing as much as the next town over. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him - Hap was the odd one out, the strange foreign bird that had dived so suddenly into their quiet flock.

He thought of the scarf that wrapped his brow. He would not have expected such a riotous burst of colours from such a dour, quiet-seeming man. He reminded Hap of Nighteyes, somehow - that same peaceful acknowledgement of the Now, an embodiment of gentle strength which refused to give way to the pressures of the future. Hap found himself running the tassels through his fingers again, Weever watching him carefully from the corner of his eye.

"I'm surprised you had the patience to put up with me for the past few days. It's gotten pretty hectic at times." Hap said finally.

A heartbeat's pause. "Someone has to do it, I suppose."

"You don't seem like you'd normally be the type of person who would brook some of the nonesense that seems to follow me around."

"I wouldn't. I don't." Weever's face hardened. "You haven't seen, but I've had to throw out four people who were trying to get through your door when they thought I wasn't looking. One of them even tried to climb that old tree outside your shutters, two nights ago."

Hap stared for a moment. "What? Why?"

His friend rolled his eyes irritably. "He wanted to ask you fishing? I don't bloody know why. It's you, and people do stupid things when celebrities are concerned. All I know is he damn near broke his fool neck when I startled him. Fell clean out of the tree."

"Surely he wasn't hurt?"

"He was. Not badly enough to do any lasting damage, but he learned his lesson. Nobody else will be trying that any time soon."

Hap leaned back, letting out a slow breath. It was true that people sometimes did things they clearly hadn't thought through in an attempt for his attention, but usually those things weren't so dangerous. Guilt roiled in his stomach. "Do you think I should go see him? Apologise for this?"

Weever stared at him, his face going slack with incredulity. He reached out, almost as if in a daze, and gave Hap's cheek a hard pinch.

"Weever! Ow -"

"Are you real? Nobody is as naive as you are. You're certainly just a pretty hallucination sitting here, drinking ale with me. I must be working too hard."

"Don't be such a tit! I just feel - ow - " Hap hastily slapped away Weever's hand, which had wandered to his other cheek. " - I just feel bad, is all. This wouldn't have happened if I weren't here."

"You don't need to apologise for someone else's voluntary idiocy."

"Still." Hap frowned, rubbing at his sore cheek. "That's not going to stop me from feeling bad about it."

Weever's eyes flitted over Hap's face, his mouth a thin line of thought. He idly turned the empty tankard in his lap, his hands moving the cup as if he were polishing it. "Nobody's as nice as you," he finally muttered.

"I agree. You'll find out I'm absolutely awful before long." Hap grinned widely, tossing back the rest of his ale and placing the tankard between them with a thud. "Isn't it getting late? Won't Trustworthy set your head on fire if you're not up early tomorrow?"

"I'm not the one who's going to be singing for the lord and his daughter, remember."

Hap's stomach seemed to fall through the floor below him. "I forgot about that," he whispered.

Weever's smile was nothing short of wicked. "Oh, I know."


	3. III

Daratkeep was simply a candle compared to Buckkeep's blaze, or so Hap thought of it. It was tiny and cramped, constructed of creaking wood and seemingly stuffed without much ceremony in-between two hills. The main hall was not large and open, but filled with one massive table, with barely enough room around the edges of it for seats and servants to move. There was only one hearth, and it seemed more decorative than functional. The priciest piece was the lord's chair - a massive structure built into the floor itself, carved and stained and worn from years of usage. It was, admittedly, beautiful, rising from the floor like a root from an ancient tree struggling to reach sunlight. Hap had heard a song about the origins of that seat, but privately he thought it more than unlikely that pecksies would’ve gifted humans with such a thing.

The tables had been disassembled and packed away into an outlying room - all but one, which creaked under the weight of kegs and food. The floor had been scrubbed and polished to a shine; Hap had been transfixed by it upon his arrival, watching the plays of shadow and light across the carefully lain wood. He knew that slatted floors were more commonplace in the inland duchies, but he had never seen one quite of its like in Buck. Despite its beauty, it still managed to seem stark and cold without a layer of rushes adding some spring to his steps.

He thought he would be busier, more swamped than he was, but Satin and her father demanded the attention of the guests. Hap had been steered and placed upon a raised platform - like a prize cow going to show, he thought to himself - where he was told to play gently and sing softly until told to do otherwise. He tried not to let his gratitude show over it. Background music was something he could do for hours without thinking, letting his voice roll out over the heads of the guests, words never sharp or interesting enough to catch their attention for more than a few moments. The little harp was like an extension of him, his fingers moving over the strings entirely of their own accord; voice and instrument never overpowered each other, each accenting the other in the subtlest ways.

He hadn't been able to perform like this in a long time, and after the surprise of being pushed about and then forgotten wore off, Hap settled into his role with ease. He took the opportunity to watch the types of people who had been invited; lesser nobles of outlying holdings, mostly, though a number of the common folk from town were moving about in their finest. He saw Trustworthy leading a small train of servants to the buffet, and his heart skipped as Weever followed her, arms laden with dishes. He hoped he would get a few moments for a quiet beer with him during the evening.

A page hopped up lightly onto the platform, leaning close to whisper to him. "The lord and his daughter will make a small speech before the dancing will begin. He says to be sure to get the timing right, and to start with something lively."

He nodded once, winding down his singing until only his fingers strummed so softly he could hear his own breathing over the harp. Virtue gave him a hard glance, taking that as his cue, and he raised his hand and called for quiet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, good people of Darat Town, it is my absolute pleasure to see you all gathered here today. As I'm sure you know, my daughter, Satin, has turned twelve. Everything here, everything you see, every single one of your actions...today, it's all for her. I would like to thank you all kindly for your generous words and donations to make this party a reality. We appreciate your kindness and selflessness. Truly, it is not the lords and ladies of Daratkeep that make this town what it is, but all of you. Please, be welcome in my home, and enjoy yourselves."

Eager applause. Hap looked out over the crowd of people; the common folk did not mingle with the nobility, but both showed expressions of eagerness and pride. He wondered at their segregation, but before he could dwell on it, his eyes caught on Weever, standing far to the back with his mother.

He towered over her, and he stood out. They were situated neatly between the townsfolk and the nobles, the latter of whom eyed him nervously and tried to edge away as discreetly as possible. Hap smiled faintly, and Weever raised his hand ever so slightly in greeting to him.

"Thank you, everyone, for joining me and my father today. I hope everything will be splendid and that the dancing will continue until morning. I intend to drink my first mug of ale tonight -" she smiled and the crowd laughed, despite the tightness of Virtue's grin, "- so I hope you will all join me for a toast then. I would also like to personally thank the minstrel Hap Gladheart for being here, as he so kindly agreed to delay his travels in order to play for me, and to witness this day."

He did not stand but bent theatrically at the waist, twirling his free hand with a flourish and grinning with deliberate mysteriousness. The scarf was snugged tight to his brow and he knew that would simply add to his presence; he had taken the time to twist his hair into ropes with pomade, letting them sit loose underneath the wrapping so they could spill out about his head. It was unorthodox, perhaps, but he had ever been known for making bold statements with his music, and certainly wouldn't do anything less for his fashion. He only wished he had had some charms or beads to weave throughout the entire mess to finish off the look.

Satin grinned widely at his display, and her father shot him a sharply critical look. Hap felt his soft smile become somewhat fixed; perhaps his unusual, theatrical display was a little much for the lord. Well, there was little he could do about it now. He flicked a glance to Weever, taking heart from his tiny cat-grin. He merely skimmed the rest of Satin's sweetly childish speech, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times, his hands itching to get back to the strings. If he was going to be trapped here for the rest of the day, he would at least make it amusing.

He felt more than heard Satin reach the end of her speech, and his hands picked out the perfect moment to strum into something lively. He didn't sing, not yet - he waited while the partiers excitedly paired off, some already skipping to the solid, simple beat that he loosed. Satin ran down to the open dance floor, leading one of her friends by the hand, and swirled laughing into the centre of the knot of dancers. Hap didn't wait any further, launching into his song without further ado.

It was something simple and lively to start them out with, a dancing song about a genteel lady and her three dogs. Hap moulded his voice with warmth, with excitement and eagerness for the day, and subtly adjusted his volume until it echoed perfectly throughout the hall. The dancers, townsfolk and nobility finally mingling without a care, swirled to his music like eddies in a stream. His eyes, however, were caught on Weever; a slender woman had taken his arm, laughing as she struggled to pull the large man into a dance. He grinned at her, his cheeks red, but shook his head; his mother pushed him from behind, her smile perhaps too eager, and Weever finally relented, being dragged into perfectly practiced steps. Hap heard the hitch in his voice and only just managed to transition it neatly into a little interlude, his fingers drumming at the harp while he coughed and cleared his throat. A few of the dancers looked at him curiously, but his rakish grin and obvious wink had them thumbing their noses, hoping something even more exciting would be coming up soon.

In truth, he wasn't sure what he was going to sing or play next. He knew his music had taken on a more subdued hint to it; the party-goers wouldn't hear it, not unless they were trained like he was, but he knew it was there. He knew it would affect the mood of the gathering, and he shook the sudden cobwebs from his head, raising his voice into the next verse.

Weever was a good dancer. He swung the small woman about as if they were fanciful courting birds; she seemed to move with his steps as if they were one creature. His shirt was open at the neck, showing off the smooth, clean lines of his collarbones, and it was tucked into his pants to show off the flat planes of his lower belly.  _ No, too much force _ \- Hap was careful to pull in his voice, controlling it tightly. He turned his eyes to Satin and her dancing partner. The two girls spun about with no sense to their steps, but they laughed loudly and kicked out their feet as if they were the only ones there. There was an open sincerity to her that her father lacked, and Hap knew she'd make a better Lady than Virtue made a Lord.

The woman’s hands hopped to and fro on his wide chest. His hands rested lightly on her hips, and he effortlessly lifted her when the music demanded it. Her hair swirled in a brown froth about her head, tangling in his stubble, and he chuckled as he brushed it aside, the backs of his fingers brushing against her cheek -

One of his strings snapped, slicing through his palm. Hap gasped loudly, jerking his hand away from his instrument before pressing it to his mouth. The dancers ground roughly to a halt, all eyes on him. He felt his brow furrow - he couldn't get blood on his harp, couldn't leave them in silence - so he smoothly loosened and tugged the dead ends of gut free, dropping them to the floor. It took only a few seconds for him to pluck a kerchief from his pocket, wrapping it tightly about his hand.

"A little too much excitement for this old girl," he said, curling the corners of his mouth before striking up a new refrain, improvising a tune to finish his song.

The mood relaxed as quickly as it had tensed, and the crowd tittered politely at his words before finding their feet again. Hap mentally sighed. He had changed the strings the day before, warming them up and preparing them especially for Satin's party. None of the strings should've snapped. There was no point in beating himself up over it - what was done was done. He could manage with one less string, so long as he altered some of his songs accordingly. He wished he had thought to bring a spare set along with him, and wondered if he would have a moment to send a runner to his room to fetch some for him. Well, he supposed it would make no difference to the partiers. It might end up being an exciting tale of his skill as a minstrel; managing to salvage a situation which could cause panic in less experienced entertainers, giving the merrymakers interesting and fresh new takes on old songs they knew. He could salvage this well, if he was careful and kept his wits about him.

He caught Weever's eye hesitantly. The man was frowning at him over his partner's head, but Hap lowered his gaze and kept his voice carefully under control. He had to focus. He wished he could take a break, even though he hadn't even finished his first song. Hap hoped that someone would have the foresight to bring him a tankard of bitterly cold ale after a few songs, allowing him to wet his throat; it seemed awfully dry already, despite the early hour. He had to keep his focus. This was a big opportunity for him, and it wouldn't do for him to mess it up so early in the afternoon.

He dug up the comforting memories of his childhood home. Nighteyes leading him in the hunt for rabbits. Tom squinting at a sheet covered in scribbles, asking for his opinion on a new ink he was testing. The sound of the chickens, the warm scent of Clover in her little paddock, of the rough wind that tossed his hair into a mess. He moved into his next song without thinking, a gentler one that he could rest his voice with. He listened to himself critically; it was about a wounded soldier wishing he could return home to his love. He could certainly manage that, and wove the uncomfortable press of his homesickness into the lyrics. He could sense Virtue scowling at him, but the dancers had slowed their pace. Some had moved off the floor, heading to the food table for ale, while the remainder softly swayed with their partners, lost in the music for the time being.

Hap kept his eyes downward. He stared at the broken string at his feet. The faintest scrape of blood had marred the clean surface of the platform. He hoped he wouldn't bleed through the kerchief. It hadn't been a deep cut, but it had stung badly. He wanted to look up, wanted to see if Weever was still dancing, but he didn't have the heart to raise his eyes. He had thought that once he got into the music, the day would be easy for him. It had usually worked out that way - even his roughest of starts tended to end happily. That seemed to be the way that his life worked out, he thought to himself. He wondered if it would end with him gladder than his name suggested.

Six more songs passed before Virtue waved at him to take a short break. Hap sighed gratefully, propping the harp up against his hip and checking his hand. It hadn't bled through, thankfully, and he unwound it slowly; while it was shallow, it still pulled at his hand uncomfortably. He had tucked the kerchief into his pocket, and was flexing his palm carefully when someone tapped on his shoulder.

Weever was behind him, holding a pair of tankards in one hand. The rush of relief Hap felt at seeing him was giddying, and he took one of the tankards with hurried words of thanks.

"I wasn't expecting that string to snap the way it did. You recovered very nicely."

"Mm." Hap's mouth was too full of ale to respond properly.

Weever grinned. "I see. So, this is how the great Gladheart thanks a man - by attempting to get drunk quicker than a scrub-horse will toss their shoes."

"I'm sorry. It's been a weird day so far." Hap scooted from his seat, sitting at the edge of the platform instead. So long as he was there, nobody - except the lord, perhaps - would dare to interrupt his break. "The string, mostly. It was brand new. I primed it myself."

Weever sat next to him, his arm pressed against Hap's. The minstrel looked down into his ale. "So. You're quite a fair dancer, Weever."

"Well. You pick things up, working the bar."

He hesitated, before glancing at his friend. He tried to affect a casual air to his voice. "Your friend -?"

"Oh, Wren." Weever said, pulling a face. "Yes. Well. I don't actually know her personally, but mam says she's had eyes for me for some time now. She's very nice," he finished somewhat lamely, taking a long draught of his ale.

"She's a very good dancer."

"Yes." Weever cleared his throat. "I'd say you should ask her to dance if you had the moment to spare, but, well, there's no other minstrels. Shame, really. I think you'd like her."

"She seems nice enough."

"Yes. She's quite witty."

Their talk died down. Weever spun his tankard relentlessly in his hands. Hap fidgeted, looking from his knees, to the crowd milling about the hall, to Weever's feet. It felt as if a gulf had opened up between the two of them, one that Hap had no idea how to bridge. All of the clever banter he skimmed over in his head seemed stupid the more he thought of it, until he was left running circles around himself. He tried to find something to stick to, something he could mention to break the silence, but Weever spoke quickly just as he was about to clear his throat.

"Hap. When the string broke. You hurt your hand."

"Oh. Yes, I did, but it's not bad. It's already stopped -"

Weever laid a hand, palm up, on Hap's knee. "Let me see. I've stitched up my fair share of regulars, the few times fights have happened."

"It doesn't need -"

"Hap." His tone brooked no nonsense, and Hap held out his injured hand with a sigh.

Weever was gentle, his hand warm. He placed his tankard aside before tracing the long cut with his fingers. Hap tried not to shiver; it had stopped bleeding, yes, but was still sensitive. He watched Weever's face from the corner of his eye. The man's eyes were soft, his mouth curved in a frown as he stroked Hap's hand. He hadn't shaved today; the stubble on his jawline was already beginning to look somewhat bristly.

"You're right. This doesn't need stitches. It looked worse from where I was standing." Weever gave the cut one last, gentle tap, before freeing Hap's hand and taking up his tankard again. He looked out across the crowd, sipping at his ale.

Hap opened his mouth to thank him, but the words died in his throat. He let his hand fall to his knee, staring down at it. The cut still tingled where Weever had touched it. He swigged down the last of his ale, at a loss for words.

"Gladheart." Virtue hurried over to his platform, his expression pinched. "I need you back on the podium soon. I want this to end successfully, remember. I'd like to remind you that you're being paid very handsomely for this, in case it slipped your mind."

"Yes - yes, of course. My apologies, my lord. I shan't be a moment," Hap stammered, scrambling to his feet. Weever followed suit, taking the empty tankard from his hand.

"Good. I want energy, remember. Hot music for a cold afternoon." Virtue didn't wait for Hap's response before eeling his way back through the crowd again, smiling in an oily sort of way at those who stopped him for words.

"Hey." Weever tapped his arm with a knuckle. "You're on edge. Just..." He paused, his eyes glancing across the hall for a moment, before settling firmly on Hap. "You're beautiful. When you sing. Just remember that, I suppose. Your voice carries so well in this room." And with that, he hopped from the platform, making his way back to the food table.

Hap watched his back as he awkwardly made his way through the crowd, loosening the ties of his shirt. The scarf pulled pleasantly on his brow, and the pain in his hand vanished as he scooped up his harp, launching immediately into a long, silly song about two cockerels mistaking each other for hens. A weight he hadn't realised had been on his shoulders had been lifted from him with Weever's words, and he grinned out over the crowd as he began to sing.


	4. IV

It was very late when Hap finally found himself stumbling back to the Three Kingfishers. He clutched his harp in his arms rather than sling it in its case over his shoulder; more people had bought him drinks towards the end of the evening, and he had gotten quite drunk before long. He had fuzzy memories of Weever being at least three of the people who had pressed ale into his hands as soon as one of his songs had finished. Another was Trustworthy, loudly proclaiming him as her most valued customer for years. Little Satin had even brought him one, before running back to her friend and laughing behind her hands. He had accepted it sheepishly; Virtue had been watching him with hawk's eyes, pinning him in place with a scowl.

He was only half aware of the sounds of the townsfolk making their ways to their own homes around him. Some of them were singing, and others were hanging off of each other in an attempt to stay upright. Hap only had his harp to steady him; he had spent a few minutes in the cold outside the main gates of the keep, waiting to see if Trustworthy and Weever would pass through, but he hadn't caught sight of them. He assumed they would be held up for some time yet, having been invited on more of a servant's basis than that of a party-goer.

The inn was quiet. He knew that most people would be heading directly home rather than heading to the tavern within for more drinking. The odd few regulars still lifted tankards to him as he pushed through the door though, and he called out pleasant greetings to him. For once, they seemed to be aware of his exhaustion, and allowed him to stagger up to his rooms without asking him more than polite, short questions about his evening.

It took him four attempts to get the key into the lock, and another two before he managed to turn it the correct way. He leaned on the door too heavily to open it and sent himself falling into the room, catching himself at the last moment to avoid crushing his harp. Heart racing, Hap shoved the door closed behind him, before turning around.

The fire was blazing, illuminating Weever's form next to the table. Covered dishes of food awaited there, as well as a tall jug of beer still beaded with cold. His friend watched him, his eyes crinkled with amusement. "I noticed you didn't eat much at the party. I made you dinner."

"Weever. The door was locked -" Hap slurred, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

"No, it wasn't. You locked the door the first time you tried, you drunken fool."

"Oh." Hap wasn't sure what else to say to that. He watched Weever in what he thought was a sly manner as he crossed the room, propping up the harp against a bedpost. He nearly fumbled it, clearing his throat as he took extra care to make sure it wouldn't fall over. Was that a snicker he heard? Hap frowned openly at Weever, wagging a scolding finger at him.

"You're very rude," he said.

"You're very drunk," was the reply. Weever grinned, gesturing to the empty seat across the table from him. "Get some food in you. See if it won't sober you up a bit."

"I do recall," Hap said, flopping heavily into the chair, "that you fed me quite a bit of the ale at the party. That's what I remember."

"Minstrels are, of course, known for their legendary memories."

Hap narrowed his eyes. "Are you mocking me?"

"Yes."

"Oh." He was lost for words again, furrowing his brows as Weever uncovered the dishes. A whole chicken, roasted and glazed with honey, nestled in a bed of parsnips. Jacket potatoes and roasted carrots swimming in gravy. Hap's mouth watered, and he began to serve himself even before Weever had finished setting the lids aside.

"I am absolutely starving," he said to his friend's raised eyebrow. "I haven't gotten to really eat since breakfast. My throat is so tired, too."

Weever's eyes lingered on his neck. "The beer's very light. Cold, too. It should help."

Hap was too busy stuffing forkfuls of food into his mouth to thank him; instead, he reached across the table, knowing it was rather rude, and gripped Weever's hand tightly for a moment. The tops of the man's cheeks reddened slightly, and he lowered his eyes to the hand that Hap had held. "You're welcome, minstrel."

Weever ate lightly but left twice for more beer; he had grazed at the party, but hadn't had much opportunity for drinking. He seemed like he would be heavily in his cups tonight, if the rate he was drinking at was anything to go by. The swimming, oily haze in Hap's mind cleared slowly - somewhat - as he ate the rich food, and he drunk his beer sparingly, just enough to keep his throat cool. Neither of them spoke much, focusing instead on their own personal tasks at hand. The fire had burned down considerably before Hap leaned back in his chair, sighing, his cup in hand.

"That was good. You're such a good cook."

Weever simply nodded in thanks, his eyes downcast. One of his legs jittered wildly; the tapping of his heel on the slats was distracting, and Hap wrinkled his brow at it. "Is something wrong?"

"No, not really." Weever glanced up at him for a moment, frowning. "You're going tomorrow, aren't you?"

"I'll likely stay tomorrow, and head out the day after. I wouldn't mind waiting a day to recover. I didn't intend to get so drunk tonight. You learn to take those days when they're handed to you, and the good Lord Virtue did pay for the room for an extra day." Hap sipped at his beer, watching his friend.

"Of course." Weever fell silent again. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His weight did not stop the jumping of his knee, and it shook his entire body somewhat comically, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Weever."

"Hm?"

Hap pointed at him, waiting until he looked up at the minstrel before speaking. "Something's wrong. What is it?"

Weever stared at him for a few moments, his expression controlled, before sighing roughly and getting to his feet to pace in front of the fire. Hap knew to hold his tongue. He had learned that his friend was not a person who reacted well to being pressured into things, and so he waited patiently.

He had tossed fresh logs onto the fire and straightened Hap's already neatly-made bed before Weever spoke. "Nothing's wrong. Not really. It was just… exciting having you around. Interesting. You don't need to speak to brighten a room, even on your bad days. You genuinely care about people, and will sincerely listen to them and their problems." He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "I'll miss you. I regret that you won't be staying for longer."

His pacing was making Hap dizzy again, but he held back his complaints. He looked down at the empty dishes, thinking.

"Hey, Weever. Let's clear the dishes away. Do you have any brandy? Tom said once that brandy with a friend can heal even the saddest of hearts. Of course, he was drunk when he said that, but..." He shrugged, getting to his feet. He was drunker than he had predicted, and he wobbled unevenly for a moment, hands outstretched to his sides as discreetly as possible. Weever had moved to the table before he could even reach for the dish covers.

"You go dunk your head in the ewer. I'll do this and get some brandy from the bar. Perhaps your Tom was right." Weever shooed the minstrel away from the table, tidying it more efficiently than Hap ever could.

The water that Hap tipped from the jug on his bedside table was, thankfully, cold. He scrubbed his face roughly with it, ignoring its bite as he tried somewhat vainly to clear the last bits of alcohol-induced haze from his mind. At least he was steadier on his feet now that he was standing; the good food had helped enormously.

He untucked his shirt from his pants, drying his face with it, before wincing at the smell of sweat on it and pulled it over his head, letting it fall to a heap on the floor. The shirt hanging from the end of his bed wasn't entirely clean, but it was certainly better than the one he had been wearing, and he struggled into it, leaving the ties loose.

The door bounced open, and Weever bowed hastily into the room, saying something sharp to someone outside before shutting the door firmly. He held a fat bottle of brandy cradled against his hip, two wide and expensive-looking glasses dangling from his hand. He pressed his ear to the door, listening intently for a few moments before immediately turning the key in the lock. He glanced up at Hap, looking somewhat abashed.

"Mam's scolding me for taking one of the good bottles. I told her you're paying well for it. It was the only way I could get her off my back."

Hap waved a hand indifferently, moving to the fire and folding his legs under him. Weever joined him, handing him the glasses so he could sit, legs stretched towards the little hearth, crossed neatly at the ankle.

"You look a little sharper." Weever said, meeting his eyes steadily.

Hap just gazed at him for a moment, his eyes jumping about Weever's face. A warmth suffused him; he wasn't sure it was entirely thanks to just the fire alone. He chewed at his lower lip, lowering his eyes.

Weever plucked the glasses from him, unstoppering the bottle and pouring out two perfectly equal measures of the golden liquid. "Let's see if your father's theory is correct," he said quietly, raising the glass before tossing back a large sip.

"To brandy with friends," Hap responded, lifting his glass with a shaking hand.

It burned exquisitely in his throat, the almost cloying bittersweetness of it heating his face and stomach. He coughed, grinning boyishly at Weever, who had nearly choked on his.

"I usually just stick to beer," he said weakly by way of apology, smiling back.

"It grows on you, if you allow it to." Hap took another sip, letting it sit in his mouth and burn pleasantly before swallowing. He licked his lips. "I used to sneak sips from Tom's store of it from time to time. I'm absolutely certain he knew I was doing it, but he only scolded me over it when I ended up drinking enough for it to get to my head."

Weever's eyes had shot down to his mouth, following the tip of his tongue. He sat perfectly still, exhaling slowly. "Is - is that so?"

Hap watched the man. It seemed far too warm in the room and he reached up to loosen his shirt, surprised when he found the ties already opened. He rubbed at his neck, trying to ignore the sudden roily fluttering in his stomach. He tossed back another large sip of his brandy, wincing at the burn of it.

Weever was not subtle enough to hide the fact that he was watching the minstrel's every move. Was that wariness in the set of his mouth? He was so still, the tops of his cheeks and sides of his neck ruddier than usual. Had he leaned closer to Hap, or was the brandy and firelight playing tricks with his mind?

"I tend to do that, sometimes. Let things get to my head, that is," Hap said, and he hardly recognised his own voice. Husky, rough, just skimming above the levels of whispering.

"You seem like the sort of fellow who would." Weever had definitely moved closer, so gradually that Hap had barely noticed the movement. The man's eyes were downcast but focused, and Hap knew he was taking in the sight of his own bare neck. His heart thudded in his chest, and the drunken headiness of the night seemed to catch up with him again with each surge of his blood.

His heart reached new heights of pounding as he felt his hand reach up to Weever's jaw, rubbing his thumb over the abrasive stubble that he still hadn't shaved away. Had he read this wrong? Did the man really want this? Weever inhaled raggedly, his eyes flying up to meet Hap's, and the colour drained from his face.

Hap met his startled stare openly. He knew that he was still drunk, knew that with every exhaled breath Weever would be reminded of the fact, but the rabbity pace of his heart and the shivering weakness of his arms betrayed his nerves and attraction. There was no hiding something like this, and Hap had never been the type of person to conceal himself from others. The discomfort he had felt upon seeing Weever and Wren dancing earlier suddenly made sense to him, the youthful eagerness for these one-on-one visits with him took on entirely new meaning. He waited; he knew he had to take this risk, or deny himself entirely.

Seeing Weever's free hand rise and shakingly come to rest on his own cheek was surreal. Hap wondered if he hadn't fallen asleep in his chair, and he dug his teeth relentlessly into his lower lip. Weever stroked his face, his trembling fingers brushing over Hap's mouth, before he leaned forward and kissed him.

His lips were not soft, but chapped from the day's cold. He tasted of brandy and the herbs that he had flavoured the chicken with, and Hap leaned into him, his glass dropping onto the hearthstones with a ringing bounce. Neither of them stopped. He was as aware of Weever's hand curling around the back of his neck, fingers digging into his curly hair, as if a predator circled him; the absolute sense of  _ knowing _ was overpowering. His own hands had settled on Weever's jawline, fingers resting on the jumping pulses of his throat and thumbs pressing into his cheeks.

Another clatter; Weever must've dropped his glass as he pushed him back to the floor, straddling him, his hand never leaving the back of Hap's head. For some reason, the sharp scent of the spreading spill of brandy set off spikes of pleasure somewhere deep in his belly, heightening his awareness of pressure somewhat further down as well. He felt himself blush; Weever's low, rumbling chuckle at his reaction sent his mind scrabbling to reassemble itself, to find some sort of control.

It was no use. The only control he had was in the way his hands pulled Weever closer to him, the way he raised his chin and invited the larger man to further explore his body, but Weever was cautious with him. He only brushed at Hap's sensitive neck with his rough lips before he moved up again, holding himself mere inches from Hap's mouth.

"My pants," he whispered.

Hap flushed further, but Weever flashed him his little cat's grin; he was teasing him, and enjoying the minstrel's less-than-subtle responses. He pressed his lips against Hap's for one long, breathless moment, before pulling away, heaving himself to his feet. The ability to breath seemed to crash back to Hap, and he let his head thud back onto the floor with a groan.

"My pants are soaked in brandy. Mam'll skin me alive if she finds out I spilled some of the expensive stuff because I was too busy kissing another man."

"I - I'm - I didn't -" Hap stammered, sitting up awkwardly. His own rather expensive trews weren't exactly a loose fit, and were suddenly far too tight in all the places that mattered. "I'm so sorry, Weever, I was assuming - I thought -"

"You thought correctly." Weever levelled a stare at him. His cheeks were still ruddy. "Completely, wonderfully correctly."

It was far too warm in the room. The lull of soberness, the sudden spike of arousal-enhanced daze, and the subsequent crash left Hap itching to remove his clothes, despite his shivering. Or, perhaps it wasn't just the heat making him want to do that. He scrubbed his hands harshly over his face, wincing as the sheen of sweat on his face stung his cut. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around them, and watched as Weever tried in vain to dab the brandy stain from his trousers.

The younger man shot Hap a sincerely pained look. "Hap. I don't want to stop, but..." He cleared his throat, looking awkward. "Would - would it be alright if I came back later?"

"Please. Yes, please." A trained and powerful voice apparently amounted to nothing when the prospect of a midnight tryst loomed. He could barely whisper, and the words he managed to get out trembled, but it was enough. Weever's steps were hesitant, light as a cautious cat, but he held out a hand to pull Hap to his feet.

They were close. He felt the heat of the other man's body through his clothes. Hap couldn't meet his eyes, but it didn't matter; Weever ducked down to kiss him, pressing his tongue against Hap's lips for a fraction of a second. "Don't feel like you need to wait up for me," Weever whispered, before letting his fingers trail along Hap's jaw as he moved away. There was no finality about the way he left the room - only nervous expectation, that they hovered on the cusp of something new and frightening.

The warm kisses were enough, for now. Hap sucked at his lower lip, tasting the brandy and herbs. He thought of his repertoire of songs - so many of them were of grand romances, tales of princes and princesses falling in love and fighting for each other despite all adversity. Others were silly, of minstrels building up trains of lovers as they travelled. Hap had been in love before, of course, and had felt attraction many more times than that. Somehow, the songs he knew couldn't amount to those few scratchy, brandy-soaked kisses from the tall young man he had come to befriend.


	5. V

He jerked awake sometime in the night. The coverlets of his bed were wrapped tightly around him, tangling his legs. It was too warm, too stuffy, and he tried sleepily to kick himself free of the confining blankets. The building was dead silent; it must be late, and everyone else in the inn must've retired. Hap's heart sank somewhat - he hadn't intended to fall asleep, just to lay his head back for a moment and rest his eyes. He hadn't taken into account how easily one could slip into heavy slumber thanks to alcohol.

His head was already beginning to show the signs of a spectacular headache, and his mouth felt as if someone had stuffed it full of dirt. He pinched the bridge of his nose, glaring around the room. There was no water on the table, but there should be some left in the ewer. It would be clean; it would have to do.

Sitting up and swinging his legs out of bed was not easy. It sent his head swimming and his stomach kicking at him, but he ignored it as best as he could. He got to his feet with a groan, took a single step, and immediately fell flat on his face, the top sheet of his bed fluttering down with him.

Hap had stripped before getting into bed, apparently, and his feet had caught in his discarded clothing. At least he had landed on the edge of the rug; he was winded, his ribs were screaming at him, and now he was in real danger of throwing up his dinner, but it could have been worse, he told himself. At least he didn't land on the bedside cabinet. It was a thin comfort, and he lay prone on the floor, feeling as if there was nothing better to do than to break down and cry.

He truly hadn't meant to fall asleep. What if Weever had come up and seen him curled up and snoring in bed? He did say not to wait up for him, but Hap had assumed it was simply the polite thing to say. He rolled carefully onto his side, curling around his stomach. He felt like he had swallowed an entire porcupine. At least he wouldn't be travelling tomorrow, some unfailingly positive part of him piped up - he'd be able to rest and recover as he saw fit. Hap wished that part of him would shut up for the time being. He named the rug Self-Pity, and he firmly decided that he would wallow on it for a time.

He was still thirsty, but the floor felt as if it should've been on a ship and he thought keeping still for a few minutes would be wiser. He knew that getting up, drinking something, perhaps sneaking down to the kitchen for some bread would all help him, but it seemed like too much work. Far too much work. He settled with dragging his trousers closer, pillowing them beneath his head and wincing at the sound of the buttons tapping against the wood of the floor.

The key scraped in the lock. He groaned loudly, the sharp thrill of seeing Weever again not helping his stomach in the slightest. He didn't have the energy to even dredge up some embarrassment over his situation - balled up on the floor, head buried in last night's clothing, naked and still trying to decide if crying would be worthwhile or not. "Not loud," he managed to wheeze desperately.

"You're quite hungover for someone who managed to sober up quite a bit before bed." Weever was quiet, thank Eda, and moved softly about the room after locking the door again. Brightness suddenly stabbed into his brain; he was stoking the fire and lighting candles. Hap whimpered, dragging a corner of his sheet up to cover his eyes.

"I'd be near fine, but I can't be arsed to try," he whispered thickly. "It's too much effort."

"Oh, quit your moaning and your moping. You're, what, twenty-six? Twenty-seven? Surely you've had your share of bad mornings by now. Stop being a baby and sit up. Here." Strong arms curled around his shoulders, pulling him into a sitting position. His head throbbed and swam; tears finally decided to show up, whether he had invited them or not. He clung to Weever's forearm as if it were the only thing keeping him afloat. Perhaps it was, just then.

"Now, that's enough." Weever's voice was so soft, comforting rather than scolding. "Here. I thought you might be a little out of sorts, but not this much. Water." A cup pressed against his lower lip, and Hap reached up to tip the cold liquid into his mouth gratefully. The chill settled wonderfully in his belly, seeming to spread throughout his entire body. Immediately he felt somewhat better, and irritably wiped the tears from his face with the back of his wrist.

"Everything just caught up to me," he said by way of apology. Weever squeezed his shoulder, giving Hap the cup and wrapping his newly-freed arm about the minstrel's stomach. Not enough pressure to exacerbate its roiling, but enough to help him feel steadier, more secure.

"It was a long day. Then an interesting evening. Not to mention that you've been waiting to leave since Virtue tied you down with Satin's party." Weever had interspersed his words with soft, hesitant kisses against Hap's temple. "Is this alright? Do you want me to stop?"

So sweet. Hap smiled grimly, taking another sip of water. "It's fine. Though you should be careful not to jostle me too much. Still not sure if I'm in the clear with my stomach, yet."

"You look better. You minstrels, always about the theatrics of a situation."

"Oh please, I'm sure you'd be no better if you were in my shoes."

Weever laughed. The rumbling in his chest was surprisingly soothing to Hap. "I once drank three Rippon sailors under the table. At the same time. Try me."

Hap drained off his cup with a somewhat shaky hand. "Did you bring up some bread?"

A pause. "No. Did you want some? It would help your stomach."

"I'll go down and get some, you've done enough already." Hap placed a hand on Weever's shoulder to lever himself to his feet, but all it took for Weever to keep him in place was a hand atop his head.

"I'll get it. Maybe you should take the opportunity to put on some clothes. Just a suggestion." Weever patted him twice as if he were nothing more than a growling puppy, and carefully extricated himself from Hap. The minstrel flushed; he hadn't realised that he had been sitting quite comfortably between Weever's long legs. Naked and between another man's knees. Oh. He buried his face in his sheet, feeling it burning with belated embarrassment.

He waited until he had heard the door latch quietly before getting to his feet. The room still swayed, and his stomach still hopped about in his belly, but it wasn't as bad as it had been before. Definitely in the realm of 'workable' now, and Hap made a beeline for his pants.

He didn't bother with his shirt, but kept the sheet snugged about his shoulders. It was comfortable and not so warm that he would be sweltering. He knew his shirt would smell somewhat of ale and Smoke, and his stomach curdled at the thought of wearing it again. No, better to leave it rumpled on the floor. It was late and he doubted he'd be awake for very long; his heart felt as if it skipped a beat at the thought of Weever in his rooms, but he knew that neither of them would try anything tonight.

_ Perhaps if I wasn't so out-of-sorts _ , he thought morosely...but no. There wasn't any point in chewing over bones long passed. Wasn't that what Tom always used to say? Not that he thought Tom listened to his own advice half of the time, but he was correct about that one. Hap gave the room a hasty, one-handed tidy while he waited, and thought.

Last night had been enough for the time being. He skimmed over the events, remembering the roughness of Weever's lips and the softness of his calloused hands, and felt his blood warm. He trusted what had happened between them; Weever was a genuine, open sort of man, and Hap had taken a risk that paid off better than he could've hoped for.

He sank down into his chair at the table, adjusting his sheet and staring into the fire. Weever was taking his time in the kitchen. Everything seemed so simple, and yet difficult to accept. Hap had misread situations like this before, with both men and women. It was bound to happen sometimes. Hap chewed his thumbnail, frowning; there was a higher risk when it came to showing his interest in men, though. It was not something he had ever really needed explaining to him. The first time he had made such a mistake, Sawtongue had found him bleeding and sobbing in a roadside ditch. He had told him someone had mugged him; it wasn't entirely a lie, for he had somehow lost the little purse of coins he had given him while he had been on the ground, his stomach being caved in from the man's metal-toed boots. He had been sixteen, then.

He remembered the rumours that surrounded Lord Golden. He had wanted to speak to him, or even Tom, about them; he had plenty of opportunities to do so when Tom was recovering from his altercation with the thieves, but he could never summon up the courage to ask the imposing Jamaillian for a moment of his time. He knew that things were different, that far south. Not like they were in the Six Duchies.

Hap pulled the sheet more tightly about his shoulders, wondering if things would ever change. The Wit was no longer a condemnable crime; legally and on paper anyway, though he was aware that pockets of bitterness towards the Old Blood community still seeded the Duchies. But the King's actions had been an important first step to abolishing that hatred. Eventually. He wondered if people would ever think of the magic in an entirely favourable way ever again.

Or if people like Hap - and, he supposed, Weever - would ever be able to live openly without risk to themselves. He didn't have the heart to think that the idea of loving someone of the same gender was immoral, somehow; while he had never loved any two people in exactly the same way, the way his heart had responded to them had always been the same. Fluttery and warm, as if he had awoken to a new spring day and found the orchids blooming in his yard. It hadn't mattered whether they were a man or a woman, in the end. The pull of attraction, the blossoming friendships, and his feelings of love hadn't truly been that different at all.

Weever had returned, slipping into the room with a plate heaped with bread and rashers. The thought of bacon grease made Hap's stomach turn, but he trusted that a barkeep would know what he was doing. "Butties," he muttered.

"Butties." Weever agreed, setting the plate down in front of the minstrel. "They'll help better than bread on its own."

Hap made a small noise of complaint, but tossed some of the rashers into a scoop of bread and bit into it before he could change his mind. It was lean meat, very lightly salted, and fried in what tasted like some sort of herby honey. He shoved the rest of it into his mouth at Weever's stern glare, hoping he wouldn't choke on a rind.

"Don't worry if you can't eat all of them. I'll have whatever's left."

"Surely you're not hungover. You drank - what was it - three squalling Farrow toddlers under a table? You're a tougher man than I am, certainly."

"You're funny when you're grumpy," Weever smiled. "Like a bear cub throwing a tantrum because he's not getting his way."

"I'll show you grumpy in a minute," Hap grumbled through a mouthful of rasher sandwich. Against all odds, they were calming his stomach and clearing his head, slowly but surely.

"I should enforce a 'no shirt, no shoes, no service' clause with you. Half the time I come up here, you've no shirt on," Weever said.

"What? It's not weird to not have a shirt on."

"You coastals, looking for any opportunity to jump out of your clothes."

Hap gave a bark of laughter. "Really, why is it so strange? Skin isn't weird. Bodies aren't weird. They're just bodies. It's you inlanders with the odd ways, if you ask me." He wrapped up another butty, tearing it in half with his teeth.

Weever shrugged a shoulder lightly, his lips curved upward ever so slightly. "If you say so. I was starting to think...well, you can consider your naked back  _ quite _ admired."

Hap choked on his food, slapping the back of his wrist against his mouth and glaring at the now-laughing man. He coughed, triggering dull spikes of pain behind his eyes, and managed to swallow his mouthful of sandwich finally. "You're terrible."

"Terribly good at getting you flustered. You're surprisingly naive, for a minstrel." Weever wrapped up a butty of his own, tearing it apart with his fingers before popping sections of it into his mouth. "I am sorry, though. I know I might've done a bit of staring. Quite rude of me."

He didn't sound all that sorry. Hap flicked a corner of bread crust at him, baring his teeth as it bounced off of Weever's forehead, earning him an amused scowl. "You could at least try to be sincere."

"Sincerity?" Weever's expression became serious. "Listen to me, then. You are beautiful. It's clear you used to do heavier work when you were younger. The muscles in your upper body are intoxicating to look at. The curve of your lower back is the work of Eda's gifted hands, her attempt at bringing the crescent of the waxing moon to life. Attempting to describe exactly how the lines of your hips affect me is like attempting to catch the sun with a net. Impossible. You are a glorious impossibility, and yet I kissed you, and felt you beneath me, and you tasted of brandy and music. Impossibly real." He lowered his eyes. "The fact that you're here now, wearing a sheet and looking like you were tied up in a sack and tossed down a hill, with crumbs somehow in your hair, makes you all the more amazing to me."

Hap let out a breath he hadn't known he had been holding. Weever had always seemed so straight-laced, even brooding and dour. He hadn't expected a romantic to be hidden away behind those strong features. His heart fluttered, and he had an odd double sense of it, feeling it against the hand that was holding the sheet about him. "Crumbs," he said stupidly, raising his free hand to pat at the fuzzy ropes of his hair.

Weever rolled his eyes; his momentary sombreness was gone. Hap idly hoped he would see it again. "Stay still," the younger man said, "and I'll get them for you. How do you even manage with this mop, anyway?"

"You - you get used to it," Hap said, his voice trembling slightly. Hopeless fool. Sweet words from a tall man and he was reduced to a near-gibbering, besotted wreck.

_ You're not complaining _ , the little rational voice in his head said.  _ Don't be silly. You loved it. _

"I don't know. I'll keep mine short, thanks." Weever moved around the table, standing close to Hap. His scent was warm; smoke and fresh bread from the kitchens, the almost chemical tang of herbs, and that inexplicable maleness that was entirely his own. Hap closed his eyes, swallowing. He wanted to lean closer, to slide his hands under Weever's shirt and trace the hard muscles of his chest, but he restrained himself. There would be time. They were both tired - Hap had spent the day singing and entertaining, but Weever had been on his feet constantly, acting just as much of a servant as a guest. He glanced up at Weever's face, noting the dark hollows of his eyes. He still hadn't shaved.

He looked down at Hap, his expression guarded. "I'll make sure there's a bath for you tomorrow. You're going to want to brush this out if you don't want to have to cut the lot of it off. It's starting to knot up."

"Of course. Thank you."

He saw Weever's throat move as he swallowed, and he leaned down, setting his hands to the sides of Hap's neck. They brushed lips, bumped noses; Weever kept his gaze lowered to Hap's mouth as he ran his thumbs over his pulse-points.

"You make my heart feel like a flock of birds in flight," he whispered against Hap's lips. "Wheeling and diving, chaotic and yet with such perfect disorder that it's clear nature has some indefinable pattern for them. I don't understand it, and I feel that if I tried to it would take away from it." He cleared his throat, pulling away and moving to lay on Hap's bed with a sigh. He fell back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. "Not understanding you would be a mistake. Understanding you entirely is not possible." His voice hitched, and he coughed. "You'll be here until the day after tomorrow. After that, I might not see you again. I can't come to know you as well as I'd like in just a day."

"I come to Darat regularly," Hap interrupted quickly. His departure was nothing he wanted to think about quite yet. "Maybe I'll extend my stay a little longer. I was heading to Oaksbywater on a whim, anyway. I'll figure it out tomorrow."

"Is it..." Weever faltered, scrubbing at his face with shaking hands. "Do you even want the same? Do you feel the same way? Or is this just a wandering minstrel's affection?"

"No." Hap spoke firmly, getting to his feet and crossing the room in two long strides. He stood in front of Weever, his hand holding onto his sheet as if he could stop time just by clinging to it. "This isn't like that. Weever, I...we only really started getting to know one another over the past two or three days. You've been so kind to me, and I've never really had much trouble attracting friends. I like you, and I enjoyed spending time with you. I know I've never really spoken to you before, never really noticed you - not as a friend, or anything else. I regret that, now. But I..." He gave a shaky laugh, chewing on his thumbnail. "I'm a famed minstrel, and yet I still can't manage to be as poetic as you. I'm not sure when I changed from thinking of you as a good friend, to hoping you could be someone closer. There is an attraction of the body, and an attraction of the mind. I feel both for you. I would like your body, yes, but only if it means having you as well. I'm happy to wait and learn you, not to rush into something because the body wants to shout over the heart. Do you understand?"

Weever hadn't turned to look at him; he watched the ceiling, his face neutral. Hap waited, but he didn't respond. The minstrel ground his teeth, hesitating for only a moment before flinging himself onto the bed as well, curling his body against Weever's side. That finally sparked some emotion - the younger man had turned to him in shock, his mouth open as if he were going to speak, but Hap didn't give him a chance.

"Face me properly," he said.

Weever blinked once, slowly adjusting his body until he lay on his left side, parallel with Hap. They simply looked at each other for a minute. Weever was confused, his brow furrowed as he waited for some sort of cue, but Hap just folded his arm under his head, grinning.

"What's your favourite colour, Weever?"

More surprise. Weever's face reddened. "That pinkish-orange you see in sunsets, sometimes," he said carefully, as if he was nervous of answering incorrectly.

"Mine's green. New leaves in spring, stuff like that. Do you like wine?"

"Sometimes. Not as much as beer."

"Same. I like it when it's the well-made stuff. Cheap swill is awful. What about shoes? What're your favourite shoes?"

Weever laughed. "What kind of question is that?"

"Clearly a good one, if you weren't expecting it. Now, my favourite shoes..."

They lay next to each other for some time, Hap peppering him with questions. Eventually Weever turned the conversation around, digging little bits of information from Hap. It was a time before their chatter dried up in favour of something else; they found themselves underneath Hap's sheet, the buttons and ties of Weever's shirt open, the larger man's mouth nipping and nuzzling at the smaller man's bare neck. They shuddered at each soft noise that the other uttered, inviting more kisses and whispers.

Hap had somehow managed to get Weever onto his back, and he gently pushed apart the man's legs with his knees until the minstrel lay atop him, stomach to stomach, mouth to mouth. The heat that rolled off of the two of them was almost stifling under the thin blanket, but neither made a move to throw it to the floor; their actions felt too private to share even with the locked confines of the room. Hap pressed kisses down his chest, one hand pressing into Weever's hip, the other interlocked tightly with the man's long fingers. He stopped as he reached the line of dark hair beneath his navel, suddenly unsure.

"It's okay to stop," Weever said, his voice low. They both knew that he wished Hap would keep going - the buttoned fly of Weever's pants was under some strain - but the minstrel was aware, fully aware, that if he stopped for now, it wouldn't hurt his ego. He would be fine. Uncomfortable, perhaps, in certain matters, but he would not pressure him.

Hap's ashamed, grateful expression told Weever what he needed to know. He tugged lightly at the older man's hand, shifting his body so they could lie chest to chest with one another. Weever curled his free arm around Hap, almost protectively, and slipped a muscular leg between Hap's knees. "This is more than enough," he said softly, kissing the tip of Hap's nose.


	6. VI

Birdsong woke Hap. He was warm, and didn't want to open his eyes. The blanket was so soft against his chest, as was the back he was pressed tightly against. He nuzzled into them both, drifting in that comfortably muzzy state between full wakefulness and a doze.

He had been coasting along the edge of sleep for some time when the warm person he was holding close to him tensed. Their distress brought him fully awake.

"What?" he slurred.

"Shit," Weever whispered, "oh, shit. Hap. It's morning. The sun's almost up."

Hap rubbed at his eyes, causing them to sting. "So?"

Weever was already pulling away, getting out of bed; the warm dent he left behind felt both empty and correct. He was panicking, running his hands over the clothing he had slept in, rushing through the process of doing up all of his buttons and ties. "Mam's going to be looking for me. If she notices I'm not in my room, that I'm here, that I slept up here..."

Hap knew that the blood must’ve drained from his face at those words. He crawled across the bed, swinging himself out of it as Weever had done. He didn't bother with his own clothing - his shirt lay abandoned on the floor, and the pants he had slept in were wrinkled and uncomfortable. The cold floor bit at his bare feet. He didn't care. He grabbed at Weever's fluttering hands, willing him to be still for a moment. For a wonder, the man stopped his anxious fussing and fixed his red-eyed stare on Hap.

"It's okay. Everything's fine, Weever. If she questions anything, just say I got even drunker in my room and you thought it would make a good impression if you brought me a hangover breakfast, bright and early. Here, stay still -" Hap circled him, tugging his clothing straight and fixing the few misdone buttons on his shirt. He dipped his fingers into the nearly empty ewer of water, running them through Weever's hair into a surprisingly neat semblance of its usual state. "You look just like someone who's had to get up early and make breakfast against his will. Make sure you shave soon. Damn, if your beard doesn't grow in fast..."

"Everything's fine." It wasn't a confirmation, but a repetition of Hap's words to convince himself. "Yes. The dishes up here. If she asks why I couldn't be bothered to shave, I'll say that I thought it would make a better impression if I waited on you hand and knee, and didn't have time. Yes." He sighed deeply, shakily.

Hap gripped his hands again tightly, pulling Weever close to kiss him. They were both trembling. "Everything's going to be okay. You've got it all sorted." He gave Weever an encouraging smile, earning himself an irritated scoff. That, at least, was an improvement.

"I'll be up when I can. Look, if you go back to sleep and wake up before I've been up, just...well, do whatever you like, I suppose." Weever leaned up to press his lips against Hap's forehead, just for a moment. "And think about sorting your hair. You're starting to look like something slum rats wouldn't even use as a nest."

"You wound me, sir."

Weever was on his way out even before Hap had finished retorting, sweeping the dishes from the table and balancing them with the elegance of years of practice on one forearm. He paused halfway through the door, inhaling as if to speak, before sighing and smiling worriedly at Hap.

Then the minstrel was alone. The birds continued to sing outside, even though the sun had only just begun to send grey fingers through the shutters. He finally felt the chill of the room, crawling back into bed without bothering to sort the fire. He curled into the spot that Weever had left behind, hugging the pillow his head had rested on close to his chest and burying his face into it. It smelled comfortingly of him, and he pulled the blankets tightly around himself, revelling in the last bit of warmth that the man had left behind.

 

* * *

 

 He hadn't thought it possible that he would doze off again, but he came awake with a sense of being jabbed with a pin. Hap jerked upright, glancing around wildly at the window; the shutters had been opened, letting in light that Hap judged to be of an hour or so before noon. Weever must've come up again and taken the opportunity to tidy up around him as he slept.

He looked down at Weever's side of the bed - _one night, only one night and I’m already thinking that way_ , he chided himself - and blinked at the sight of the pillow neatly arranged in its original position.

Oh, that bastard. Hap's bone pick lay dead center on the pillow, a handful of pine needles artfully arranged around it. They had been pinched, crushed slightly to release their astringent scent into the air. That must've been what had woken him up. He sighed loudly, looking about the rest of the room.

The ewer had been refilled and covered with a clean cloth, sitting on the hearth to warm. There was no lingering scent of spilled brandy from the night before - Hap must've slept through Weever washing the floors. He felt guilty that he hadn't done a thing to help out, noticing that the surfaces were spotless and that his dirty clothes had been removed. Clean ones for the day were folded neatly at the foot of the bed. A looking-glass and jar of oil had been pointedly set up on the table.

He rolled his eyes, shaking the blankets from about his shoulders and setting his feet to the floor hesitantly. The room had a thin warmth to it, despite the fire, and he was already shivering as he crossed the room. He simply folded his legs underneath his as he reached the hearth; even the rug felt as if it had been brushed and beaten out. He sighed. At least the water in the ewer would be warm, and he tossed the cloth into the wooden bowl waiting on the floor before filling it.

He took his time about washing. Hap didn't count the looming prospect of another, proper bath later on to be an excuse to go lightly on himself. He scrubbed his face in particular with gusto, wincing as the warm cloth touched his cheeks; Weever's stubble had been quite abrasive on his face. Shaving would be a hellish experience if it had caused any sort of rash or redness.

There was nothing left of his drunkenness - nor, indeed, of his hangover - except for a lingering, pressing thirst. He didn't need to look to know there would be a tall glass of watered wine sitting on the mantle. _No fooling a barkeep when it came to drunken nights_ , he thought, and stretched back to his feet.

He felt good. No, _better_ than good. The stress of the earlier morning had passed, leaving him marvelling at the night. Him and Weever, sleeping together, both asleep in the same bed. Ridiculous, boyish affection for him filled his chest; he couldn't be bothered to put any heart into scolding himself over it. Hap had a couple of years on Weever, but the younger man was bulkier than him, and slightly taller; falling asleep in his arms had been exactly what Hap imagined the comforts of a permanent home to feel like. The man had been so solid, so warm, so gentle with him even when he had hesitated in their tentative love-making before. Understanding, even, and happy to do nothing more than fall asleep next to a naive, silly minstrel for the night.

"Gladheart," he said wryly, pulling on his clean clothing. He hummed as he slid about the room in his stockings, scooping up the pine needles from his bed and tossing them into the fire with a sizzle. The hair-pick went spinning into the air before he caught it, retrieving the predicted glass of wine from the mantle and taking a seat in front of the looking-glass.

Hap stopped humming and cringed. Well, Weever hadn't been entirely wrong. He hadn't been tying his hair down properly before bed for the past couple of days, and would have to suffer the consequences for that now. He momentarily entertained the idea of just cutting the lot of it off to save time and energy, but baulked; he may have gotten slightly vain over his foamy mess of curls. This wasn't going to be fun.

Simply separating the mess into two equal chunks was enough to make his arms ache. He tucked one of the mats over his shoulder, and gingerly began to pick apart the other with his fingers. Attempting to use the oil and pick without doing some preliminary work would just ruin the lot of it.

It was strangely relaxing, despite the pain. He hummed and sang softly as he worked, little silly songs that he sang to sad people or children. He was good at long romances and epic battles, yes, but his heart would always reside with simple, happy songs, and he always found himself reciting them to himself whenever he had a spare moment. He moved his fingers through the mat in time with his music, then dipped the ends of his fingers in the oil and brushed it through the chunk of hair that had been broken apart more than detangled. He sang about a little warrior girl as he started working with the pick, slowly unknotting the mat from the ends up. It was high noon by the time he had finished with the one side, and he had sung twenty-three songs, warming his voice and practicing until he was pleased with each one.

The second mat was more difficult to get through. Hap's arms were tired and trembling by this point, but he had hit a stride. Twenty-five songs later - some of them repeats - his hair finally hung in oil-heavy, neatly combed locks about his shoulders. He looked a mess, but at least he didn't look like a mess of a bird's nest any more. Hap tried not to sway as he stood, flipping his head upside-down and pulling the entirety of his hair down before twisting it into a loose knot to sit at the back of his head. He punched the pick through it, weaving it gently throughout the knot, and hoped it would hold it in place until he could wash it out properly.

He sipped at the dregs of his wine, tucking the cords of hair that had already escaped behind his ears. His scalp was sore, but he was pleased at how much lighter his head felt. He itched to wrap his scarf over his brow, but knew the fruity oil in his hair would likely damage it.

There wasn't much to do but wait. He looked forward to the bath with a disproportionate amount of excitement; it seemed to be a stepping stone for the rest of his evening with Weever. He felt his neck warm as he wondered what they might do in the quiet hours of the night together - if they did anything at all. The idea of just sleeping next to him again set his heart pounding as much as the idea of much more erotic things. It didn't particularly matter what he did, or how the evening ended up going, so long as Weever was there to share it.

He crossed the room, popping his harp case open and taking his precious instrument. He dragged his chair over to the rug in front of the hearth, curled a leg underneath himself as he sat, and began to work on tuning the poor thing. It needed some light maintenance; nothing important or even entirely necessary, but it was the little things that needed doing that usually ended up irking him more so.

The strings were fine. The new gut he had put in place strummed easily. He knew this instrument like he knew how to breathe, and tuning it was never a complicated matter. Before long he was strumming, plucking notes from the old thing, humming along wordlessly as he played for the hearth. Minstrels tended to be a naturally vain lot, and although he had yet to meet a single one who didn't value their instrument of choice at least as equally as their own life, many of them did flatter themselves with the delusion that their voices were the more important of the two things. Hap didn't think so. They were not there to overpower one another, the harp and him - they were strong and clear on their own, but together, each complementing the other...that was where his own personal strengths lay. He thought the true path of musical beauty was in nothing less than absolute harmony between minstrel and instrument. The day that he truly believed he was better than his old girl was the day he would willingly smash the poor thing against a wall.

The fire was just warm enough to lull him into a quiet state as he sang. He watched the flames rather than his own fingers, listening in a disconnected way to the music that spilled from him. There were no lyrics and no name for this; just a mindless outpouring of self into the world, forming images in sound of himself and setting them free as if he were scattering the seeds of a dandelion. The flames danced along with him and he adjusted the music to incorporate their sinuous movements, the snap and sizzle of pockets of sap burning away into nothingness. The slight oily burn of the smoke. The full spectrum of reds and oranges that coloured the fire.

It was only knuckles rapping softly on the door, but it felt as if someone had hit him in the back of the head, hard. His vision splintered momentarily, blackening at the edges, and he felt the harp begin to topple and slip from his hands. He cried out in terror, clutching the instrument to his chest and pulling his knees up to curl protectively around it.

Then Weever was kneeling on the rug in front of him, reaching out for him. Hap took one look at his face and burst into high, surprised laughter; he shaved. He had finally shaved. He knew it shouldn't have been amusing, but he was still coming down from the rush of being startled.

"I was somewhere else entirely," he said, before pushing the harp at Weever. "Hold this for a moment."

The man accepted it clumsily, holding it as if he were cradling a newborn and looking just as baffled as if that was exactly what Hap had indeed handed to him. The minstrel got to his feet and immediately wobbled; he took deep, steadying breaths, making sure his feet were stable under him before gesturing for the harp. Weever handed it back immediately, clearly glad to be rid of it.

"If I fell over and damaged it, it would kill me. I'd sooner walk into a dragon's maw, shouting insults at her."

"I surprised you." A quiet, bald statement, rather than an apology.

"Have you ever been so focused on your weaving that you lose track of yourself entirely? And if anything interrupts you, it's like the room just breaks around you?"

"Oh. I can understand that." Weever's eyes skipped over Hap's face. "I can't believe your hair's already curling through the oil. You'll look like a baby owl if you're not careful."

Hap tenderly packed away the instrument, giving the strings one final check before tightly shutting the case. "Everyone loves baby owls. Maybe I'll become famous."

"There's a bath in the shed for you. You'll want to head down while it's still hot." A flat, annoyed stare. "Mam damn near skinned me when she didn't find me in my room. It's lucky she's been breathing down my neck to kiss your arse so much while you're here, or she never would've believed that story."

Hap sunk onto the bed, his hands under his thighs. "I'm sorry if I've caused you any trouble. It's hardly your fault you were up here last night."

"Well." From annoyed, to neutral. "Nothing I can't handle. I'll just have to be more careful tomorrow morning."

Hap's heart sped up. "You're staying here tonight?"

"Do you mind?"

"No, not at all. Of course I don't."

Weever smiled. He hadn't quite shed the dark circles under his eyes from the day before, but his cheeks were smooth and his hair was perfectly tidy. It was more than Hap could say for himself, really. He got to his feet, slowly, and they both moved to stand at the centre of the room together, suddenly as shy as boys.

"Just...if you feel like turning me out at any time, don't hesitate." Weever's voice was soft.

A tiny step closer. "You really think I'm going to do that?"

The taller man lowered his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly? No. I don't think you will."

"Good, then. That's settled." Hap prodded Weever's chest with a finger. "I'm going to go take a bath now, and then I think I'll stretch my legs in town for a bit." Hap was struck by an idea. "Can I see your room when I get back? If you don't mind?"

"My - my room?"

"Or you could bring some of your work up here. I want to get to know you more," he finished simply, plucking his scarf from the bedpost it was wrapped around and holding it taught to drive the point home.

Weever frowned at him for a moment. "I suppose you can just see my room. It's just -"

"Don't worry." Hap thumbed his nose and grinned. "Minstrel's honour. I won't judge you for anything, and I won't go bandying about what's in there."

"As if a minstrel's honour means much," the man grumbled.

"Oh sweet Weever, your words spoken in crankiness do cut me so," Hap put on a theatrical pout, sniffling loudly.

Weever sat down heavily into Hap's abandoned chair, pointing firmly at the door. "Out. Go have your damn bath."

Hap laughed, waving his temporary goodbyes as he left. He wasn't concerned about leaving Weever in his room, with his harp and bags; he had clearly already rooted through them at least once in order to dig out his pick and lay clean clothes for him. Hap found that the thought of it didn't bother him particularly. _If it had been anyone else, though_ , he thought as he leapt down the stairs two at a time. It was fine, because it was Weever.

He was smitten already, and he was a complete fool. He knew that. He didn't care much about that, either. Trustworthy shot him a curious look as he skipped into the common room, bowing deeply as he was greeted by the usual chorus of half-drunken welcomes, no matter the hour.

"Weever got you up, did he?" she said, leaning on the bar.

"Oh, yes, he certainly did," Hap said back, flashing her a winning smile. "Lady Trustworthy, I can't begin to tell you just how impressed I am by you and your son. I daresay you can count on the Three Kingfishers having my full patronage in the future."

Her wary curiosity burned away smoothly, and she grinned back at him, clutching her little hands beneath her chin. "Isn't that wonderful! It warms my old bones to hear the great Gladheart speak so kindly of my humble inn, to be sure. Hear that, Scuttle? Hap Gladheart's well fond of the Kingfishers. Isn't that lovely?"

"'Ay!" Old Scuttle wheezed in their general direction, lifting his pint in a toast. Hap mimed raising a drink in response.

"Now, you get out to the bath before it runs cold, young man. It will not do, letting you catch a chill on my watch. It simply won't do. You run along now." Trustworthy shooed him off with her polishing rag, and he jogged away from it, knuckling his forehead to her as he slipped through the back door.

The shed was solidly built, as far as sheds went, and even had a lock to allow him some privacy. Steam curled from the tub in the centre of the room; he wasted no time in latching the door and stripping, sinking into the hot water with a groan of delight.

Weever had seen fit to provide him with extra soap, and after a short soak, Hap set about scrubbing suds throughout his oily hair. It was a relatively light oil thankfully, and soon the water was milky with the run-off. _There is nothing as pleasant as freshly-washed hair_ , Hap to himself. The memory of Weever's face, pupils wide and half-lidded as Hap had slowly kissed his way down his belly, gave him dark-faced pause. Well, maybe some things were more pleasant. Just some.

He wasn't sparing with the soap, scrubbing at his skin relentlessly until he was as ruddy as baked clay. Hap wasn't particularly dirty, but it felt good to finally wash away the stale sweat and scents of ale and greasy food he had picked up from the party. The soap must've been expensive; it was faintly scented with lavender and contained soft rolls of oats. He didn't think he'd ever be so soft-skinned again in his life.

A bucket of clean water put aside earlier over his head to rinse, and he was done. Hap stepped out of the tub, shivering, and hastily rubbed himself down with the ragged towel that had been neatly folded aside for him. His hair was another matter, and he wrapped the damp towel around the ends of it, twisting and squeezing it tightly until he felt as if he were pulling his scalp off. It wouldn't be completely dry, but it would have to do.

He was slipping back into the inn not a minute later, fully dressed, hair loosely pinned up with his clean pick again to keep his shirt somewhat dry. Weever was working the bar, polishing glasses and keeping a lazy eye on the regulars that were already in their cups. Not that they really needed watching, Hap had come to learn. Even if neither Trustworthy nor Weever were about, the patrons would simply help themselves to their alcohol of choice, leaving a scattering of coins under the counter. It was quaint action that Hap would never have seen in Buckkeep Town.

Weever looked up at him, giving him a lopsided half-grin and nodding his head in the general direction of his room. Hap thumbed his nose in response, not stopping at the bar. He knew where Weever's room was, but hadn't yet had the occasion - or reason - to enter it. He wouldn't have done so anyway, not unless its owner had given him permission to do so. It had never seemed correct when Weever had been with him in a more servile role than companionable one; the game had changed, Hap thought to himself, and he wondered what the two of them were now.

Friends, still? Friends with benefits, perhaps? No. Hap dismissed it - that implied a purely physical relationship. His heart skipped as he reached Weever's door. Were they lovers, then? He held the door handle, glancing over his shoulder warily. The proprietor's rooms were away from both the bar and guest rooms, out of sight of all but the kitchens.

"Lovers," he whispered to himself, the word scarcely more than an exhalation of breath. It felt odd on his tongue; it had been years since he had been able to call another person a lover. It had only been a scant couple of days for the two, though. Surely that was far too early for either of them to be thinking things like this. He gave his head a shake, loosening a scattering of stubborn droplets, and pushed the door open.

Once, during a summer visit to Withywoods, he had asked Granny Patience to walk him through her garden and tell him of the many plants she kept. He hadn't realised what he had been getting into; she was relentless, leading him about as if he were a misbehaving toddler and describing every single plant that grew in the chaotic garden. Between the hothouse and the grounds there were more plants than he had thought existed.

One little corner of the hothouse had been a sheer explosion of colour. Exotic flowers that he had never seen before grew in a mess of tubs and pots. Hap had been immediately attracted to them, asking Granny about them and listening avidly to her every word.

Stepping into Weever's room had rather the same effect on him. There wasn't a spare inch of wall or ceiling uncovered; rugs and scraps of fabric, crocheted nets and little hand-made bracelets; a fisherman's net had been pinned to the ceiling, and both beads and what were obviously Hedge charms gently swayed from it; painted twigs gave the impression of some wild sort of pecksie grove, and strings of feathers softened the entire room.

He stood, his mouth hanging open, and slowly pushed the door shut with his heel. Two wooden machines stood against one wall - a large and imposing loom clearly meant for creating large swatches of fabric, and a much smaller spinning wheel that was gaily carved and painted. Rugs woven from clean rags made the floor plush; even his bed was covered entirely with carefully woven and embroidered work.

Most wonderful of all was the sheer colour of everything. Nothing in the room was bland; even the spaces between hangings on the walls were brushed with bright little sigils and wards. He would never have expected anything quite so fantastic for the man, and moved slowly so he could sink onto the bed, gazing around the walls like a child at their first Winterfest.


	7. VII

Hap didn't know how long he'd have to wait for Weever and was uneasy about touching anything. He toed off his boots, crossing his legs on the bed, and leaned back against the rug-adorned wall. He looked down at the scarf he'd wrapped around his wrist while his hair dried - it seemed so in place here, naturally slotting into the perfectly controlled disorder. Hap stroked it lightly, wondering if he fit into Weever's life that way.

He was nervous about it. He couldn't hide that from himself, and there would be no point in denying it. Giddy as well, of course, but the anxiety was a constant thrum beneath the buoyant joy he felt. What if they were caught? What would happen to them? Hap didn't know Trustworthy well enough to be certain of her reaction to the news that her son was potentially bedding a man. Hap pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly. Would she kick him out of the Three Kingfishers? What would happen to him if she did?

He supposed he could support himself with his weaving - he was more than talented enough - but where would he go?  _ You wouldn't leave him out in the cold _ , his heart said, but he frowned. Hap didn't have a permanent home. Maybe Tom would let him stay at Withywoods while he got back on his feet? No. A cold chill spread throughout Hap's stomach. He'd have to explain the situation to Tom and his wife. He doubted that his father would take it well; the thought of Tom cutting contact with him was gut-wrenching, something nightmarish he couldn't bear thinking on. He wrapped his arms over his head, chewing his lip, and steered his thoughts away from his father.

Weever probably wouldn't willingly accept being shacked up somewhere that wasn't already his home. He couldn't presume that the young man would even want to go with him. Hap bit down harder into his lip - it was all just hypothetical anyway. He was working himself into a bluster over nothing. Nothing had happened, and if they were careful, nothing would happen. They'd be fine. Nobody needed to know.

The door unlatched; Hap's head shot up as Weever slid through the door, raising an eyebrow at him.

"You alright?" Weever said, shutting the door quietly and carefully turning the key.

Hap sighed, hugging his knees again. "I was thinking about this. All of this. Us."

Weever hesitated. "What do you mean?"

"Not like that," Hap said hastily. "I'm not doubting this. I meant - just that we have to be careful."

The younger man frowned deeply, crossing his arms. He did not sit on the bed next to Hap, but loomed over him somewhat, glowering at nothing. "I know that. I'm fully aware of the consequences of getting caught out." He looked down at his feet, uncomfortable. "I'll take the risk."

Hap swallowed. "We both have a lot to lose if we're found out."

"You more so -"

"No. That's stupid." It was Hap's turn to glower. "What about your life here? The inn? Would you get turned out and chased away, or would people not care?"

Weever lowered his head, remaining silent. It was the only answer that Hap needed. "No, Weever, we can both be hurt by this. But," and Hap paused to inhale deeply, "I'm also willing to take the risk. I want to. And if anything does happen -"

"Don't." Weever raised hand to stop him from voicing his thought. "If that's a bridge that we have to cross, we'll cross it only when we come to it." His eyes were still downcast and thoughtful.

Hap fell silent. Weever rubbed at his chin and began to pace. The silence was tense, yes, but comfortable between the two nonetheless.

The minstrel waited patiently for some of the tension to drain from Weever before speaking up again. "I love this room. I've never seen anything quite like this before."

Weever startled, looking up at him before glancing about. "Oh. Well, I suppose I don't see it as particularly interesting. It's just...my room," he said, finishing with a shrug.

"Those charms." Hap pointed up at the ceiling. "You have a hedgewitch in town? I didn't take you for the kind of person who’d buy them  _ that _ frequently."

Weever chuckled. "I made them."

"You - what?"

"I have hedge magic. I probably forgot to mention it, not that it would be important one way or another. I assume I inherited from my father."

Hap broke out into a massive grin. "You're a hedgewitch? No! Seriously? I lived with a hedgewitch for a little while, before she, well, she tossed me out. It was interesting."

A guarded look. "Tossed you out."

"She was a friend of Tom's. Well, I say 'friend', but they were sort of...physical...for a little while. She offered to let me stay with her while I was doing my first apprenticeship in Buckkeep Town."

"I see." Weever finally sat down at the seat for his large loom, resting his elbows on his knees. He furrowed his brow. "Wait, first apprenticeship?"

"I was to be a joiner. A woodworker. I was passing fair at it, but I didn't enjoy it particularly. Hence, the 'frequent outings to drink with minstrel friends' backstory. Not very exciting, is it?"

Weever gave him a half-grin, a mischievous look in his eyes. "Woodworker."

" _ Really? _ You're really going to crack that joke at me? Sweet Eda, as if you're the first man I've heard that from." Hap rolled his eyes theatrically, reaching up with both hands to check his hair. Still damp, but it would do. He unlooped the scarf from his wrist, wrapping it tightly over his brow and knotting it at the base of his skull. He plucked the pick from his hair, shaking it loose over his shoulders.

"You've been with men, before?" His voice was careful, wary, but there was no judgement in Weever's expression - only cautious curiosity.

Hap chewed at his lower lip. "Yes. Twice. They were...kind of minstrel's relationships, though. Neither lasted more than a month. The fact that I was never around, and the threat of being caught always looming sort of...spoiled it. It was like that with the women I've been with, too. Except for one. That one was bad judgement, on my part."

"Women."

"Of course." Hap raised a brow at Weever. "What about you? If you don't mind sharing juicy gossip with a wandering minstrel, of course."

He cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck. "I haven't been with anyone. I...women really do nothing for me. And this is a small enough town. Mam wants me to settle down and have kids, but..."

"I get it." Hap hesitated. "Wren's interested in you, you mentioned."

"Oh, yes, she is. She's lovely, Hap. Smart, witty, and you saw how well she could dance. I want to be friends with her, but that's all. There's just nothing..." He gestured vaguely at his loins, shaking his head and sighing.

Hap laughed. He kept his voice carefully low. "So, just men for you, then."

Weever's eyes slid from Hap's. "Yes," he said, even more quietly.

"I suppose that makes me very lucky, then."

The man's gaze snapped back up to Hap's. "Why?"

"What do you think of the Witted?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Weever's expression hardened somewhat.

"Humour me," Hap said carefully. He wasn't unaware of the general attitude towards the Old Blood in Darat.

"They're untrustworthy. Dog-wizards, mam calls them. They're just not natural."

"Why not?"

Weever narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. Hap crossed his arms, keeping his expression open, but refusing to back down. "They're - they just aren’t. Consorting with beasts - it's just not right. They can bring plagues and diseases, and will use them on anyone who gives them an excuse to. How is that right?"

"Have you met anyone with the Wit?"

"Hap, this is ridiculous." Weever's cheeks had darkened, his voice lowering to an irritated hiss. "Are you Witted? Is that what you're saying? Because -"

"I'm not. And I'm not just saying that to cover my arse," Hap scooted to the edge of the bed, digging his stockinged feet into the rug. He was careful to keep any tenseness from his shoulders, careful to keep his stance open. "But you dodged my question. You haven't met anyone with the magic, have you?"

A long pause. "No."

"Weever, I  _ have _ ." The magic wasn't condemned any more. His father couldn't be burned over water and quartered just for possessing it anymore, not legally. Was it still a secret? Was it something he could share? Hap felt himself teetering on an edge, but slowly, carefully drew himself back. No. Not his secret to give away. "I know someone with it. I know them very well. They're no different from anyone else, Weever. They lived a quiet life, with quiet hobbies. Things have changed for them, now. I knew their bond partner for a long time. He was as good a friend to me as any, I can assure you, even though he wasn't human. When I'd heard that he had died, it was like losing a little part of myself. This person - I can't imagine not having them in my life. Their magic is a part of them, but it doesn't make up all that they are. Do you understand where I'm going with this?"

"No," Weever said stiffly.

"Us," Hap said firmly, "and others like us. Men who fall in love with men. Women who want to bed women. People like me, who can be stirred by anyone, given the right circumstances. We have to keep ourselves hidden, not because what we do is wrong, but because others have convinced themselves that it's not natural. A group of very loud people who would sooner decide to mix up in business that definitely doesn't concern them in the slightest, rather than just shrug and let people like us get on with our damn lives in  _ peace _ . They have no sincere hold over us, but we still have to bow our heads and keep quiet because we have no other choice, if we don't want to risk getting hurt."

Weever stared at him flatly. His jaw hadn't loosened; Hap doubted he would accept anything he had said easily. He knew that the younger man was stubborn, sometimes to the point of digging his heels in so firmly he wouldn't accept that the sky was blue if someone had been trying to convince him of it. Hap was careful not to let his frustration show. "I'm lucky because I have you in my life now. You're a man. I'm a man. You're a man who enjoys other men. I'm a man who enjoys men, and women, and..." He gestured vaguely, giving a half-hearted shrug.

"You're saying that just because others think that people like us are wrong, we are not. That - that I'm not wrong. That there isn't anything wrong with me."

"A part of you must've known that if you were comfortable enough to lean forward and kiss me that night," Hap said quietly. "There's not a thing wrong with you. Not one single thing."

"Like the Witted, then." His voice was still stiff and unapologetic, but some of the tension had left him.

"Yes. Look where they are now. Well, it's been, what - ten years? Eleven? However long it's been since King Dutiful changed those laws. The attitude towards them is still...a bit lukewarm, I’ll admit. But it's changing. Slowly, but surely, it's getting there."

Weever's leg began to bounce. "You're saying that things might be like that for us. One day."

"That's what I'm saying. I have a lot of hope for the future. I'm confident that things will get better. So, until then, we have to just keep singing and smiling." Hap gave him a tired grin.

Weever stared down at his jumping knee for a solid minute before getting to his feet. He flashed the door a quick look as he crossed the room, his eyes settling on the lock, before sitting on the bed, close to Hap.

It seemed as natural as anything to curl his arm around Weever's waist, and he did it without thinking. The mattress dipped where they sat, and they leaned on one another, arms around each other, Weever's one knee back to hopping and bumping against Hap's own quiet leg. He watched it idly, letting his head rest against the taller man's shoulder.

Weever planted a kiss on the top of his head. "Can I make you something? A charm?"

"What?" Hap looked up at him in surprise, before narrowing his eyes. "Why? I can't get pregnant, Weever, and if I have to explain  _ that _ -"

A bellow of laughter broke out of Weever of a sort that Hap had never heard before. Weever's wide chest shook relentlessly. Hap grinned, bemused, during the minute it took for the guffaws to finally subside.

"I forgot," he said, wiping away tears, "that you said you lived with a female hedgewitch. Who, if I recall, you said your father was intimate with. Is that really the only experience you've had with charms?"

"Well..." It wasn't, but to be fair, his experience amounted to little more than the charms Jinna had made. He hadn't retained much of the knowledge he had picked up about them after he had moved to Gindast's workshop; even less after Tom and Jinna had seemed to develop some sort of coolness between them and drifted apart.

"Not a woman's charm. I wouldn't even know where to start with one of those. A traveller's charm." He hooked his arm through Hap's. "To help keep you safe on the road, you know."

"You'd do that?"

"Of course I would." Weever leaned over awkwardly, reaching for and pulling a large, heavy-looking box from under the bed frame. It was dark wood, carved intricately and carefully stained. It was almost as elaborate as the various carvings that Tom's friend had littered the cabin with, back in the day.

He resettled himself on the bed, his back to the foot of it and his legs crossed tightly. He heaved the box up as Hap mirrored him.

"Every charm is something intimate, something personal to the hedgewitch making it," Weever explained as he opened the box. It was filled with little compartments, each of them containing a collection of charm components. "That, as you know, does not mean we can't make them for other people. Have you ever noticed that no two hedgewitches sell exactly the same charms?"

Hap blinked. "Actually, yes."

"That's because certain materials just plain attune better to certain witches. Some can work wonderfully with wood, while others favour beads or shells. It depends entirely on the person. What did your lady landlord use?"

"A lot of small twigs, strings, beads I think."

"Look here." Weever pointed out the various materials in his box. "I seem to work best with wooden beads, fabrics, and paints. I'd certainly be able to make a charm like your landlord did, but it wouldn't be as effective. It's important to stick to what works best, but it's equally vital to always be experimenting. You might just find something that attunes even more strongly to you."

His large hands were nimble, drawing a thin, neat strip of rag from a ball that had been wound around one of the bedposts. "Let's see. I know you said your favourite colour's green, but I'm feeling red for this. Like clay. This one's not long enough." He tucked it back into the ball, unerringly plucking out a longer bit of rag. "Perfect. Here, hold this." And he tossed the piece of rag at Hap.

Weever had a light to him that Hap had only seen once, when he had been talking about his weaving. It was more of a banked fire compared to that blaze before, though. The way he sorted through the little bowls of beads, picking out ones that seemed identical to the rest to Hap, was mesmerising. His wide hands, those long fingers deftly knotting the rag and adding beads in patterns that made no apparent sense, speaking quietly and simply about what he was doing all the while. This bead, he would say, would make you seem less tempting of a target to thieves, but then he'd add another one, claiming that highwaymen would not feel as inclined to attempt to rob him.

Hap couldn't understand the difference between the beads, and Weever had looked at him like he was slightly daft.

" _ This _ one is for thieves," he said, pointing at the large bead that dangled from one knot, "and  _ this  _ one is for highwaymen." He held up a separate, all but identical bead. "They're two very different things, when you get to the long and short of it."

Watching him paint tiny sigils onto each bead had been the highlight for Hap. He couldn't understand how the big man could handle such a tiny brush, painting such neat little markings while his foot jittered away underneath him. He finished the charm off with a quick coat of clear resin to seal the charms, hanging it from a nail in the wall to dry.

"Charms aren't the be-all end-all of protection," Weever said, "but it'll have to do if I can't be there to look after you myself."

"Excuse me," Hap scowled at him. "I'm not that much smaller than you. Do I need to remind you of how you were singing praises of my back muscles not that long ago?"

"Oh, how I  _ dream  _ of them, how I wish I could glide my eager hands over your shoulders and leave a trail of fiery kisses down your spine! How I wish to see it beneath me like the very landscape of perfection itself, looking down upon it like the moon, tethered to you only by my hard -"

"Don't you  _ dare  _ -"

"- hard sense of how blissfully unaware of your own beauty you are. How your joy in the world spills from you, without you ever realising that you yourself are Joy incarnate, Love carved into glorious form by the kindness of Eda herself -"

"If you really think that all this flattery is going to get you anywhere," Hap said, reaching out to pull Weever closer by his collar, "you're entirely correct."


End file.
